


the sky is still blue.

by KweenRatMother



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Temporary Character Death, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Crying Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester/Other(s)(Mentioned), Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Excessive Drinking, First Kiss, Gay Panic, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, I made myself sad, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out in the Impala (Supernatural), Men Crying, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Supportive Sam Winchester, Tags May Change, There's a lot of crying, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, What Have I Done, but i will break your heart first, sorry i like hurting my faves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22251388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KweenRatMother/pseuds/KweenRatMother
Summary: When did it get so dark? Dean can’t even begin to guess how much time has passed. The world stopped the moment the light inside Castiel had gone out for good.He remembers sitting there on his knees, in complete shock and denial, for a long time before reality collided with him, far sooner than he ever would've expected it to. Far sooner than it ever has.And suddenly, just like that, all the pain had unraveled from him in a huge, revolting tangle, and he couldn't get it back in.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 123
Kudos: 331





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by the song Sky's Still Blue by Andrew Belle. Required listening.
> 
> This is the first fic I have ever written or posted. Please be nice to me, and leave a comment if you liked it because I am a quitter if given the chance. V a l i d a t e m e. I will go down with this ship.

Dean's breath turns to clouds of circling mist as it meets the bitter cold air.

The mist rolls from his parted lips, ragged and erratic, the shuddering sounds drowned out by a growing downpour that batters the surface of the lake. The dark, damp earth beneath his knees has long since given way to restless puddles, saturating his worn jeans all the way through.

Dean isn't registering the discomfort. His hair and eyelashes are dripping, hands pale and numb where they're clenching the trench coat's lapel, all feeling in him frozen away. 

Dean can't move his hands. Can’t move at all. He can only kneel here in the mud, clutching Castiel's corpse as if it's his only anchor to the earth itself.

His mind is all at once a horribly desolate void and a wild storm of incoherent noise. Static fills the edges of his vision, threatening to pull away whatever sanity he might still have. The very world seems to tip dangerously back and forth like some sort of fucked up seesaw. Or maybe  _ he's _ the one tipping, a body he seems to have lost all control over rocking involuntarily, delirious. 

_ Cas _ , is the only thought Dean can drag to the surface.  _ Cas, please. _

_ Please. _

_ No. _

_ Please not you _ . 

_ You can't be— you can't— _

_ Just wake up, wake up, wake up, please— _

Castiel isn’t warm anymore. Dean doesn’t know when the last of his warmth faded. He's completely soaked. Rainwater is pooled in the curves of his collarbones and under his eyes, somehow serving to drive home even harder that he's a corpse.

Water doesn't do that on living people. 

Living people move when water gets on them. They shake it off, they find shelter, they put a coat on…

Dean's thoughts keep veering off in random directions, forming slowly and then spiraling back down like murky liquid in a backed up sink. He can't keep a hold of them.

Tiny particles of whatever the raindrops brought down with them are floating where the water has collected on Castiel's body. Dean stares at them, unblinking, as they drift in endless circles, disturbed over and over by more drops breaking the surface.

When did it get so dark? Dean can’t even begin to guess how much time has passed. The world stopped the moment the light inside Castiel had gone out for good. 

He remembers sitting there on his knees, in complete shock and denial, for a long time before reality collided with him, far sooner than he ever would've expected it to. Far sooner than it ever has. 

And suddenly, just like that, all the pain had unraveled from him in a huge, revolting tangle, and he couldn't get it back in. 

He remembers screaming until his voice gave out, to God, Amara, Billie, fuck it,  _ anyone _ who would listen. He'd just kept repeating, hysterically, in his head that if he yelled loud enough,  _ somebody _ would come bring Cas back. 

They  _ had _ to.

But none of them did. 

Dean remembers begging shamelessly, the whispered words barely making it past his wrecked throat. Offering everything he could think of, but eventually fizzling out after who knows how long when his hope had finally been reduced to cold coals.

Nobody had listened.

He'd cried. Sobbed for longer than he ever thought he could, his head bowed against Castiel's chest. He'd tried several times to stop himself, shocked and horrified by his own outpouring of emotion, so used to being able to shut down as soon as someone dies. Each time, he failed. His ability to shut down at will, his safety net for as long as he can remember, has been cut to pieces. No warning. Just— _ gone. _

It's dark now. Dean is exhausted, hollow, and numb.

It's dark, and someone is saying his name. Or maybe they've  _ been _ saying his name. For... some amount of time.

Dean blinks once, twice. Rainwater gets in his eyes.

Strong hands grip Dean's shoulders, his face, his shoulders again. 

"Dean. Hey. C'mon man, say something. Dean, snap out of it, c'mon, just  _ look _ at me.  _ Please _ ."

The voice sounds far off. 

Dean slowly looks up, reality trickling back in as he starts to shake his head, trying to clear it. 

His ears are ringing—shrieking really, so sharp at first that he thinks he might be sick. He lowers his head and squeezes his eyes shut, but when the ringing subsides, all the noise around him comes in too clear, too loud.

Sensations Dean hasn't been tuned into all crash into him at once. He's wet, and cold, and shivering badly. He can barely feel his hands, which are still clinging to the soaked trench coat.

But Sam is here. 

Dean focuses on his brother's steady voice, trying to follow it, in a painful stumble, to some semblance of awareness. Shame floods in. He actually just had a fucking  _ breakdown. _

_ And Cas is dead. _

"Sammy..?" Dean finally manages to whisper. 

"Dean," Sam replies in a rush, like he's afraid Dean might check out again any second. Hell, Dean isn't sure if he might either. "Hey, you're okay, you're okay. I got you, okay? We gotta go inside now Dean, you're freezing."

Sam carefully lets go of Dean, ready to catch him if he keels over. Dean honestly feels like keeling over. He sways a little, and Sam steadies him again before shrugging his jacket off and wrapping it around Dean's shoulders. Sam is rapidly getting drenched himself, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

"Shit, Sam, I'm sorry, I—I…" Dean trails off, not sure what he's sorry for or even what he was trying to say. He's hearing his own voice seconds after he actually speaks. His vision is tunneling. This is not okay.

_ Cas is dead. _

Each individual thought besides that one takes so much concentration to translate, that they all twist and curl away and disintegrate before Dean can make any use of them. He is a wreck.

Sam pauses for a moment, then reaches out and takes Dean's shaking hands in his own, carefully detaching them from Castiel's coat. 

"Cas…" Dean mumbles, feeling his anchor break loose and be carried out to sea. 

_ Dead. _

_ He's dead. _

Suddenly Dean is assailed with revulsion and horror. Suddenly he needs to get away from the angel's corpse, get as far away as he can. Heart racing, Dean tears his hands from Sam's and scrambles back, only getting a few feet before he tries to stand and winds up planting himself right back in the mud. Sam moves immediately to follow him.

But the panic dissipates, just as swiftly as it had come. Taking everything else with it. Leaving Dean with only a hopeless fatigue that sinks into him and sets like cement. 

" _ Cas _ ," Dean chokes out again, hating the sound of it, willing himself to stop this madness. Brick his emotions back up, wall them off again where they'll be safe. 

Safe and  _ ignored _ .  _ Invisible. Silent. _

_ Cas is fucking dead. _

"I know, Dean. I know." Sam says quietly, and without another word, he pulls Dean into a hug.

Dean hugs him back, brick wall be damned. Sam is warm, and real, and Dean needs to be grounded, so he holds on like his life depends on it, feeling altogether like  _ he _ 's the little brother now. Sam is being strong for his sake. This  _ just  _ happened and Sam is already pushing his own grief to the damn bench so he can be supportive. Dean doesn’t know if he should be grateful or guilty. He settles on guilty. Not much deliberation needed. 

After a couple of minutes, Sam is hauling Dean up, saying something about drying off and getting rest. Something about Jack and how he's vanished. Dean tunes him out, trying to focus on just moving forward. 

_ Don't look back. _

_ Don’t look back.  _

_ Just keep fucking walking. _

_ Keep. It. Together. _

Dean looks back. 

There's Cas, lying dead, all alone, growing farther and farther away. Dean can't handle it, can't bear the grief that saws through him again. He could swear he physically feels it, the visceral pain like a dull blade shoved into his chest. 

_ He's really gone. He's really fucking dead. _

_ That is his  _ body  _ and he is fucking _ dead.

Dean staggers, his legs unable to hold him up anymore, but Sam doesn't miss a beat, half-carrying him the rest of the way into the cabin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean suffers some more, only this time he has a roof over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I wrote this fic after viewing the season 12 finale but before season 13 hit Netflix. (yes it does take me that long to work up to actually posting anything). I promise I did not know that Dean prays and then hits something in the canon. I think I might know him a little too well.

Dean sits on the floor in what had been Jack's nursery, his back to the wall, knees drawn up toward his chest. He stares numbly at the cheery paintings above the empty crib, a distant bit of his mind wanting to make a throw-up-in-my-mouth joke about the overdone cuteness. That bit of his mind that defaults to joking his pain away, protecting him from anything that could break him.

It's so small and weak now, quiet, half-hearted. 

_Cas probably helped paint those walls_ _,_ Dean finds himself thinking instead, and that thought comes from a different part of him. The part that tossed him aside, took the controls, and is now hurtling into oncoming traffic. _He was good that way. He was so good._

Dean tips his head back to rest on the wall, shuts his eyes and tries to breathe. 

_Cas. Is. Dead._

Dean knows he needs to get his shit together. He doesn’t _get_ to have a breakdown. Not here. Not now. This _needs_ to stop. 

_Just pack it all away,_ he shouts internally at himself. _Shove it all down like you're supposed to._

_Like you always have._

_Why are you suddenly so bad at this?_

_The world's gonna fucking turn without you so quit being so goddamn weak._

Dean presses his eyes shut harder, til he's seeing stars, til his ears ring. Opens them. Lets the colored static clear from his vision. 

Drags his clammy hands over his face.

And he starts shoving it all down. Stacking all the ruins of barriers back up and slamming the doors on his agony and grief. Boarding them up and sealing the whole fucking thing in concrete. Dropping it in the ocean for good measure. 

Immediately after that, though, is when Dean realizes he forgot to stuff the regret in there.

With everything else suppressed the _regret_ floods in to suffocate him. 

All the years he has longed for Castiel, ached for him in ways he's never had the guts to face. How many times he had lost himself in those pale blue eyes, retreated for a precious moment to that terrifyingly peaceful place the angel's gaze always led to. 

All the blissful dreams he's had, dreams of sunshine lighting up those eyes, making them shift from a rich, deep Midwest lake to the soft shade of a clear morning sky. Dreams of a trench coat tossed idly on the corner of his bed like it had always belonged there, of combing his fingers through messy dark hair. Dreams of his hands caressing warm tanned skin, or clinging to it, that body arched over his own, damp with sweat…

Dreams he would wake from, his face burning with shame, and try to physically shake from his brain. 

Dean had wanted Cas, _needed_ him, and had never stopped being afraid of those feelings.

He had buried himself in denial, and now?

Now it's _too fucking late._

Why does it all seem so stupid now, the fear he'd felt? He'd been a fool, so certain he wouldn't run out of time to work it all out, that there would always be another day to think it through. Certain there was some explanation he could placate himself with, some excuse that would spare him from facing his desires, so he could put them in a box and that would be that.

Now all he can think about is _why_ didn’t he take the plunge and just confess? Take the risk? All the risk he takes every day and his _feelings_ are what finally bested him? Just because the feelings were for a guy? Because he was sure that guy was way too good for him anyway? He should've been able to push the past and his stupid insecurity away and man up. 

But no. 

No.

Dean sighs, long and weary. And shoves that regret down too. 

He doesn’t know how much longer he sits there, trying hard to maintain this fragile semblance of numbness, but Sam comes in then, dry clothes in his hands. He lowers himself down to sit with Dean and offers the clothes to him. 

"Here. Get dry before you get sick. And we'll bring Cas inside," Sam says, his voice level, controlled, but Dean can still hear the sadness in it clear as day, how he falters a bit over the angel's name.

Dean ignores it. Dean wants to be pissed. He _needs_ to be pissed because his normal coping mechanisms aren't working and that terrifies him. Dean wants to break something. Kill something. 

Because for some _fucking_ reason he can still see that box he _thought_ he'd shoved everything into, drifting back from the murky depths. He is still painfully aware of its presence, as if he's chained to it, weighted and sinking down into the dark with all the shit he can't bear to feel.

If he's not angry, he doesn't want to find out what he'll be instead. Dean feels like he's teetering on the edge of a void, with a hurricane building up around him, nowhere to run and nothing to hold onto but this senseless rage surging up inside him.

As Sam gently tries to encourage him to get up, Dean lashes out. 

"Get the _fuck_ offa me Sam, I can handle myself just fine!" He'd intended to just snap at his brother, but the words come out of his mouth as a shout. "And we ain't gonna bring him inside, we're gonna bring him _home!_ "

Sam flinches a little and backs off, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace.

"Okay, Dean. We will. I'm sorry, man. Really." With every word Sam's voice gets smaller and sadder. The unmistakable voice of the little kid Dean has spent his life protecting. 

Ignoring a pang of guilt, Dean takes the dry clothes and hauls himself up, turning away from Sam and lingering a few moments to ride out the head rush. He feels one of those unnaturally large hands settle on his shoulder, and he bristles, refusing to turn around. 

"Dean…"

" _I said I'm fine!_ " Dean snarls, shrugging Sam's hand off and storming out. 

He just needs it all to be done, and he doesn’t know, or doesn't _want_ to know, what exactly that thought really means.

  
  
  


In the paper thin safety of the bathroom, Dean pries damp clothes from his body and stands in front of the mirror, avoiding his own red-rimmed eyes in the reflection. Rain keeps falling outside, a dismal staccato pelting the roof.

Dean looks up at the ceiling, fidgeting. 

Maybe it's denial that makes him try again.

"Chuck," Dean whispers. "Come on, you must be hearing this. You know this isn't right. Cas, he doesn't—he, he deserves better, better than to be done dirty like that. And I know you've…" he pauses, forcing down the tightness in his throat. 

"I-I know you've brought him back more times than is probably fair, but...but I'm just asking for one more, just one more miracle, and I swear I'll never ask for anything again as long as I live. Please. _Please._ "

Dean waits. And he waits. Hyper vigilant of anything that could indicate a response—flickering light, tremors, any sort of noise.

Nothing.

Still. Fucking. Nothing. 

Dean feels as if his insides are crumpling in on themselves, calcifying into tiny, cold stones in his chest.

_It was worth a try._

He starts putting on the dry clothes.

Dean's hands are shaking as he tries to button up the flannel and he groans at the ceiling in frustration. 

He takes a couple of deep breaths. Tries again.

Another breath. Another try. No dice. He can't even get more than one fucking button done.

Suddenly the sound of his own heartbeat is far too loud, his ragged breathing like a fork scraping against teeth. His ears ring, a piercing, endless screech. Frigid terror starts to clench around his lungs and he feels like he might be sick as the room wavers.

He is panicking. At a time like this. 

Dean slams his fist into the mirror, driving a radial web of cracks into the glass. 

It isn’t enough. 

He hits it again, this time with the other hand. Over and over until the pain drowns the panic out and blood pools in his open palms. He lets it trickle out, watching numbly as it slowly makes its way to the drain. The sink and tiles below are littered with the shards of red-streaked glass that escaped the mirror frame.

Dean can finally breathe again, taking refuge in the pain. He calmly fastens his shirt, smearing blood all over each button. 

There's a soft knock on the bathroom door. 

"Dean. Take it easy. Please," comes his little brother's sympathetic voice from the other side. 

"I'm fine." Dean throws the door open and brushes past Sam with his head down, shredded hands dripping a trail on the floor. Sam follows cautiously as Dean pulls a coat on and stalks to the front door.

"You don’t have to be," Sam says softly, and Dean grinds to a halt. He sets his jaw, exhales slowly, doesn’t turn around.

"You don't have to be fine, Dean. Not this time."

Dean doesn't speak for a full couple of minutes. He doesn’t move. The silence stretches thinner, tenser with every passing second. A drop of blood falls from his right hand, the tiny splash like a firecracker, separating Dean from his trance. 

"I'm not." His voice grits out through his teeth, low and hoarse, but thankfully steady. It takes every ounce of self control he has left to crush down the lump in his throat. He finally turns.

"I'm fallin' apart, Sammy, alright? I don't know what's _happening_ to me. I'm fuckin' losing it. I–I've never—it's never been _like this_ before."

Sam's mouth twitches in that way it always does when he wants to hug you, but doesn’t know if it would even help. 

Dean meets his eyes. "Look, I need to pretend I'm fine right now and I need you to pretend with me, man, okay? Please. Just—just fucking humor me."

After a miserable moment, Sam nods, looking defeated.

"Okay," he replies quietly.

Dean turns and leaves the cabin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter down! I am seriously over the MOON that this fic already has a few kudos and even a bookmark. stay tuned clowns!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They leave the lake. Dean suffers some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will come a day when the sad will stop, but it is not this day

Night has descended completely now, cloaking the lakeside in the thick darkness that only wilderness offers. But even in that darkness, somehow those scars in the earth still stand out. The ragged silhouettes of huge, beautiful wings burnt into the ground, darker than the night itself.

With every step towards the fallen angel's body, so gracefully framed by those black markings, Dean feels the hole in his chest being torn wider. He steels himself as he stops a few feet away. 

Castiel looks frail and vulnerable in death, like a man who has finally found sleep after years and years without it. Almost peaceful. Those eyes that had held the raw divinity to crumble mountains, but in equal measure such quiet tenderness, closed forever. Dean already misses them so terribly. 

Castiel's gaze had been sanctuary; Dean had drank up every second that he was given to lose himself in it, that island of calm that hushed the storms in his mind. He'd always feel selfish and unworthy for it later, but in the moment, those long looks he and Cas had shared were among the very few things he's allowed himself to surrender to. 

Cas was safety, warmth. Solace. Yet every time Dean almost thought he had mustered the courage to say it to him out loud, he'd backed out again and again. 

There are no more chances. Dean's sanctuary has been destroyed for the last time, leaving only emptiness behind.

Dean kneels down and gathers Cas into his arms, gently as if it makes a difference now. His injured hands sting as dirt and water invade the cuts, and he focuses hard on the pain instead of his grim task.

Castiel feels too light. Too cold. Too wrong. His head drops to one side at an odd angle, his arm hanging limp. Dean cradles Cas closer and forces himself to look up.

"I'll get the car started," Sam murmurs as he passes by, heading for the Impala and opening her back door on the passenger side. 

Dean carries Castiel's body to the car, and lays him carefully, reverently across the back seat. He can't get himself to move faster than something resembling slow motion, as he reaches under the seat, stiff and numb. 

Dean retrieves a fleece blanket, one he's slept under so many times when the car was the only hotel he and Sam were gonna get. It's worn soft, threadbare in a few spots, and smells like home. As he spreads it over Castiel's body, flinching when his fingertips brush cold skin, Dean knows this blanket will never mean comfort again. This is a nightmare, and he isn't going to wake up.

Before he can lose his shit again, Dean straightens up and shuts the door. He pauses for a moment, elbows resting on the roof. Sam is standing on the other side, just looking sadly at his older brother in the weak moonlight. He's started the Impala, but hasn't gotten in. 

The car rumbles beneath them, a constant, strangely soothing sound. Dean lowers his head down between his elbows and grasps the ends of his hair, hands shaking. And he just tries to breathe.

After a few seconds Dean pulls himself together. This is no time to be a miserable piece of shit. He has to get Cas home. 

"I'll drive," he says stiffly.

"Dean, it's alright, I can drive tonight," Sam replies quietly, digging the keys back out of his pocket.

"I _said,_ " Dean growls, stalking around to the driver's side, " _I'll_ drive. Gimme the fuckin' keys." 

Instead of waiting for a reply, he simply snatches the keys from Sam and gets in, not looking at his brother even once, and slams the door hard. Sam joins him, with significantly less aggression. He doesn’t argue. 

  
  


\---

  
The road stretches out, endless and dark in front of the Impala. Dean has been driving for hours, non stop. It's past midnight, and Dean's body knows he needs a break, but his mind keeps screaming in protest. He can't, not with Castiel lying cold and dead in the back seat. He won't take a break like this is any old regular fucking day. He doesn’t have the right.

But exhaustion pulls and pulls at Dean like a storm drain gathering rain water. Each time he fights his way out of its hypnosis, and each time it drags him a few inches further than the last. 

Dean has a death grip on the wheel, knuckles rigid and pale, the skin stretched taut where all the cuts from the mirror are trying to close up. Some of them have reopened more than once. Some of them are bleeding even now, in a slow trickle. Dean's hands are filthy with dried blood.

Dean doesn’t want to sleep. He just wants to keep driving, to bring his angel home for the last time. But willpower could only carry him so far, and the intense fatigue he's been battling eventually comes out on top.

  
  


Dean is jolted awake again by Sam grabbing the wheel, swerving the car hard to the right.

"Dean! For the last time. We are finding a hotel. Now!" 

Dean's grip is still fused to the wheel, but he instinctively stepped on the brakes when Sam had shoved him back and pulled over with some difficulty. 

Dean has no memory of the past few minutes, much less actually falling asleep. In the sudden stillness, Dean stares at his brother for several seconds, eyes glazed and unfocused. Then all at once, his whole body just deflates, hands slipping from the wheel, shoulders sagging pitifully as the tension abandons them. He blinks a few times and looks away. 

"I said I'm not stopping," Dean protests, but it's less than half-hearted. His eyelids are already getting heavy again, and he's practically slurring his words. There's no fight left in him and they both know it. 

"Dean. You drifted to the wrong side of the road. Get out and switch with me. Now," Sam says firmly. "I'm not losing _anyone_ else today."

Dean obeys, and Sam clambers awkwardly into the driver's seat as soon as it's empty, adjusting it for his longer frame. Dean slumps dejectedly in the passenger seat, feeling frayed and defeated. He shuts the door, not even bothering to try and slam it, and just sits there like a kid in time out. He wants so badly to at least put on a show of his usual attitude, but he's drained. There's no point.

Sam shrugs off his flannel shirt, rolls it into a makeshift pillow, and offers it to Dean. 

"Try and get some sleep, man, for fucks sake." He says, sounding far too tired himself. Dean accepts it wordlessly, and Sam squeezes his shoulder briefly before steering the Impala back to the road. 

Dean doesn't want to sleep. He doesn't want to wake up, and feel those two seconds of oblivious bliss before everything will come crashing back down on him. But his body has other plans, and he succumbs to the exhaustion in only a few minutes.

Dean sleeps, a suffocating, sludgy sleep that consumes him like quicksand. He dreams of light, searing, brilliant, then gone. He dreams of rain, of drowning, of black wings and the stench of burnt feathers.

  
  


\---

Dean barely remembers actually waking up and entering the dimly lit hotel room. It's their usual digs: water-stained carpets, two mediocre beds, a sad little TV that the 90's wants back, ugly partitions nobody ever asked for, and a small, passable bathroom that smells a little too much like air freshener to actually be clean.

Dean is sitting on one of the beds, staring blearily at nothing in particular. At some point, Sam had patched his hands up, and they were wrapped in fresh gauze around the knuckles, the pain lessened but still constant. Somewhere outside, a dog barks incessantly, its cries echoing through the empty street.

A sliver of yellowish light stretches across the room from the slightly open bathroom door. The sounds of Sam brushing his teeth are grainy and distant in Dean's ears, like he's straining to hear them from two blocks over. His bone tired brain is filing away all his recent memories in that same far off spot, dulling the grief, dulling the anger, dulling _all_ his emotions actually, until he feels like he's still dreaming. Like he isn't properly attached to his body, ready to come loose and float away, away to a place that's just like this, but...not. 

_Maybe this has all been a dream, comes_ a hopeful thought.

_Maybe I'm in a coma or unconscious or something, and my stupid fucked up imagination made all of this up._

_Maybe I wake up tomorrow, yeah?_

_Maybe it'll all turn out okay._

_Maybe tomorrow I'll see Cas alive again just please let me see him smile one more time—_

The bathroom door opens with a long creak. Yellow light floods in, searing, brilliant, then gone.

Dean slips painfully back to his senses as his brother pads to the bed and takes a seat beside him. Sam doesn't say anything, just sits there. Dean draws in a shaky breath. 

"That all happened," he whispers, praying he won’t get a confirmation, his voice so small he had to double check it actually came from his own mouth. Sam leans forward and looks at him.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did," he says hoarsely. "Dean I'm so sorry. I know _I'm_ pretty broken up about this. But I can't imagine how painful this must be for you." With a tired sigh, he pulls his hair back behind his ears, then lets it fall again. "I'm sorry if I've been tough on you, I just can't let you slip away too."

Dean drags his hands over his face, slowly letting his breath out. That caring tone makes him want to break down entirely, just shatter and become nothing. He doesn't deserve anyone's care. And he doesn't want it anyway, because it would make him feel, and he just can't feel right now.

"We should sleep," Dean croaks, hating himself for it, knowing he's refusing help, but simply unable to do otherwise.

Sam gives him that "but I just wanna talk about our emotions™" frown that Dean loves to roll his eyes at, but he gets up after a moment and crosses the room to his own bed. 

  
  


Dean lies awake long after Sam has started snoring. He's been burning a hole into the ceiling with his eyes for way too long without blinking, which he decides is the reason for the tears in his eyes. He knows he isn't going to sleep tonight. At least not without the fucked up dreams that had plagued him in the car like a particularly clingy witch's curse.

If there's one single goddamn thing Dean knows for certain, it's that he _cannot_ handle watching Castiel's death replay in his mind another time tonight. 

He slides off the bed, moving quietly so as not to wake Sam, finds the mini bar, and raids it. 

The menu consists of two local craft beers and a whole mess of cheap, trashy liquor, but it's the thought—and the alcohol volume— that counts. 

Dean drinks it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you love when Dean is sad like i love when Dean is sad put your motherfuckin hands in the air \o/


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean struggles to cope. Sam gets awarded the "you tried" gold star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Amen by Amber Run is REQUIRED LISTENING. There will be a quiz.

Dean wakes earlier than he should've. The storm has passed over, and the morning sun still shines pale and thin. Dean hears birds chirping and the occasional car rush by.

  
  


And he is in the front seat of the _fucking Impala_. 

  
  


Groaning, Dean grabs the dashboard and pulls himself up, joints cracking in protest. 

"Son of a _bitch…_ " He mutters, twisting to work out a few more spots in his spine. Damn, does his head hurt something fucking nasty. The pleasant sunshine mercilessly stabs little needles into the backs of his eyes. The pain in his hands is still dull but insistent. 

He glances in the rearview mirror and feels his insides fill with sand again. Castiel's body is lying still on the backseat, the blanket covering him pulled back a couple of feet to expose his ashen face. Sunlight spills over his neck and lips, adding a sickly false color to the skin.

Dean looks away quickly, like he could bring Cas back by just not looking at his corpse. If only.

He lays his forehead on the steering wheel and sighs miserably, " _Fuck_..."

Fragmented memories are starting to leak back into his head. 

Staggering out of the hotel room. 

Struggling with the car keys for a good minute.

Pretty much falling into the front seat.

Spending who knows how long _rambling to Castiel's dead body._

Dean whirls around and sweeps the blanket back up to cover Castiel's face. He could swear he felt the cold radiating from his dead friend, and something about it violently turns his stomach, giving him the sudden urge to vomit. He stumbles out of the Impala and stands there a few seconds, head spinning, willing his heart to slow down, forcing himself to think about literally everything _except_ vomiting. 

Still dizzy, Dean hurries back to the hotel room, gets the door open, and shuts it as fast as he can. Sammy is already awake(of course) and doesn’t seem too surprised. He starts to say something, but Dean makes a beeline for the bathroom and locks himself in without a word.

Before thinking twice, Dean immediately goes to throw cold water on his face, then curses loudly when it soaks into his bandages, saturating the raw wounds underneath. The injuries pulse angrily, his fingers prickling. He must've cut himself deeper than he thought.

Dean storms back into the room, knowing he's going to need help fixing up his hands again but unwilling to ask for it. Sam gives him a long look, his expression one Dean can’t really place in his stunted emotional dictionary. Then Sam simply grabs the medical kit from the nightstand and opens it.

"Sit," he orders, and Dean doesn’t argue, but he does sit as grudgingly as he can muster. It's not a lot.

_I don't think I'm me anymore,_ Dean thinks, and the thought leaves him a little paler. It's too accurate, too real. It makes too much sense to be okay.

"You drank the bar last night," Sam states, his voice thin and tired, but level. He starts slowly unwrapping the soaked gauze from Dean's hands, taking care to avoid the many cuts.

He didn't have to say that. Dean knows he'd woken up and seen the empty bottles. The redundant statement is just a badly disguised offer to "talk about it," as Sam is so fond of doing.

Dean stubbornly keeps his mouth shut. This shit isn’t gonna work on him. The last thing he wants to do is elaborate on how helpless and lost he is. To just toss his weakness out into the world for someone else to carry? To admit he is losing control? No way.

Sam finishes patching him up, quietly and methodically, for a few minutes of heavy silence. Then he switches gears.

"We…we should fuel up before getting back on the road," Sam says slowly. "I'm gonna do a breakfast run. There's a corner store like 10 minutes away on foot." A pause. Then, "Are you okay to stay here or do you want to come with?"

_Are you okay to stay here alone with your dead best friend right outside?_ Is the unspoken question that Dean hears.

_Are you okay to stay here now that you're so fucking fragile? Or do you need a babysitter?_

_Are you gonna do something stupid Dean?_

_What the fuck is wrong with you anyway?_

_This is ultimately your fault. Why couldn't you have pulled him back to our world with us? Said something that would've stopped him?_

  
  


_Why'd you let him_ die _?_

  
  


Dean explodes. 

"Dammit Sam, I'm fucking _fine_ !" He snarls, launching himself up from where he was sitting to face his brother. "Just go. Stop giving me those pity eyes and—and talkin' to me like I'm some kinda wild rabbit or something, and just _go_ ! I'm _handling_ it, man, just fuckin' go." 

Dean stops for breath, his face hot, fingers curling restlessly, waiting for a reaction. Searching Sam's eyes for something besides kindness. But Sam just nods.

"Okay," he says calmly, and steps away from Dean to get himself ready to leave. Dean watches him, chest still heaving, adrenaline swimming in his veins with nowhere to go.

"Oh come on, at least get angry!" He cries desperately, throwing his arms out wide in frustration. "Yell at me. Hit me. _Something_!"

Sam freezes and turns to look at him. It's a long look.

"I asked for that once too," he says softly. "because I felt like I deserved it. Do you remember that? Dean, please tell me why you think I should be hurting you."

Dean doesn't have an answer. At least not one he'd say out loud. He can feel his throat burning, and tears he is flat-out _refusing_ to shed right now are threatening to fall anyway.

"Just go get the fucking food so we can bring him home." Dean's voice falters on the last few words and he curses himself internally. He sure isn’t making a good case for not needing any comforting. "And don’t waste cash on me, I'm not hungry," he adds hoarsely.

Sam frowns with concern, clearly trying to bite back a response. Trying…and failing. Of course.

"Dean. None of this is your fault. I promise you that. What happened to Cas, that’s all Lucifer. And we'll kill that son of a bitch, okay? We will. I'll be fucking _damned_ if I don’t watch him burn myself. But I need you to go easy on yourself, man. Taking the blame for this…it's gonna destroy you, Dean." Sam pauses for a breath, then finishes quietly, "That's not what he would've wanted. I just want you to know I'm in this with you. That's all."

Dean fixes his gaze intently on the floor, biting his lip, eyes darting frantically, searching for something that doesn't exist.

"Just go, Sammy," he finally whispers. "Please."

After a beat, Sam nods. "I won't be long," he says, and then he walks out, closing the door softly behind him.

  
  
  


Alone now with nothing but his thoughts for company, Dean wonders why the fuck he'd actually asked for this. The silence in the room is stifling, strangling. The air is stale. Dust motes drift in slow motion, glowing in the stripe of sun coming through the curtains. The occasional noises outside sound far off and fake, like he's been placed in his own little cell of quiet. 

Dean sits on the carpet with his back against the bed, draws his knees up, and covers his eyes. It hasn't even been a day. How the hell is he going to handle this for a week? A month? The rest of his goddamn _life_? 

He truly has no idea, no plan whatsoever, and that scares him. Bad. 

Dean's heart had shattered before Cas even hit the ground, and it had left him with nothing, powerless and ruined. God, what he knows he would give to see Castiel alive one more time. To have just five minutes to tell his angel how much he loved him. To say how stupid he'd been to hide his feelings all these years. To finally know the taste of those perfect lips.

Cas had been murdered without ever knowing how loved he really was.

_And who the fuck am I to call him mine?_ Dean thinks bitterly.

"I never fucking deserved him," he whispers aloud. "Never. God, Cas, you shoulda just left me in Hell. You shoulda left me when I kicked you to the fucking curb…you shoulda left me when I beat the crap out of you…God, I'm so sorry. Castiel, I love you, I love you and I'm so, _so_ sorry."

Dean is gazing at the ceiling now, as if Cas could hear him somehow. He's praying, more desperately than he ever has, except maybe in Purgatory. He halfway expects to hear that familiar rustle of invisible feathers behind him, feel the breeze that carried the scent of Castiel, a scent that doesn’t exist now. 

Dean can't bear the longing anymore. Tears slip out unbidden, and he's helpless to hold them back this time.

  
  
  


When Sam returns, Dean locks the pain back up, just like he has to. Like he's supposed to. Though a frayed part of him does want to let it all go, to sob into Sam's shoulder until he can't breathe, the part of him that instinctively stomps his emotions down is _so much_ stronger.

So Dean drives. 

He drives and lets the road hypnotize him and numb his mind out as the hours wear on and on. Because he's good at that. If nothing else.

It's only hours later when Sammy has fallen asleep, steady breath rhythmically fogging the window, that Dean steals a glance at the rearview mirror against his better judgement.

It's only then that he watches the miles be eaten away with tears blurring his vision, setting his jaw so he won't gasp and wake his brother. 

Dean is sure he'll at least feel a little less insane after Cas is laid to rest, and he doesn’t have to look at his friend's corpse anymore. That’s how it has to be. You lose someone, you say your goodbyes, and you suck it up and move on, right?

So that’s what Dean resolves to do.

  
  
  


It was bullshit, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a night,,

After the funeral, Dean spirals. 

He can barely stand to look at Jack, and when he does, it's only to lash out at the kid.

Recurring nightmares steal away what little sleep he tries to get. Night after night he jolts awake, panicked and trembling, unable to fall back asleep for fear he's going to watch Cas die again, see the Devil's smug fucking grin, see his mom being dragged to another world.

It isn’t long before Dean starts overdosing on bad coping mechanisms. 

Days drag by in a haze, but no amount of whiskey, or trashed hotel rooms, or letting vampires choke him out a little longer than usual, can take the pain away. No amount of excessive stabbing long after the monsters are dead can erase the image of Cas being stabbed from his brain. 

Every town that has a bar, Dean is there, drinking, pretending to care about whatever case they're on while Sam does all the work. Most nights, he'll find some attractive enough woman just as drunk as he is and have a meaningless one night stand in the Impala's back seat. 

Some nights, though, Dean drinks so much that all his inhibitions, _all_ of them, sink down into the ocean of liquor and disappear. 

Those are the nights he'll somehow wind up in a muggy, dimly lit dive bar bathroom, getting fucked against a grimy wall by some blue-eyed stranger who's probably a lot more sober than he is. 

Dean's recollection of those drunken hookups comes up patchy at best, and his stupid ashamed brain always fires off excuses the following day, still struggling to accept his own desires. He does the best he can to forget the hookups, at least for the short time until the next one.

Because what little he does remember, still turns him on, and he doesn't have an excuse for that. 

Because deep down, he knows he was trying to fill a void with those men, a void where Castiel had once been. 

And because no matter how plastered he was, there were always those moments, as he grasped for purchase at dirty tiles, felt a stranger's hand grip his hair and yank his head back, heard a stranger panting in his ear, that he would imagine he wasn't with a man whose name he didn’t even bother to know. 

In those delicious scraps of time, when the loveless pleasure takes over, scrubbing his mind clean of the parts that tell him no, Dean allows himself to live in a world where he hadn't been so scared. A world where he had confessed how he felt and those feelings were reciprocated. 

Would Cas really have reciprocated? Dean doesn’t know. Cas deserved better anyway. But it doesn’t matter now. Dean is simply finding whatever dulls the grief, if even for a minute, and chasing it like a drug. 

Sam tries to keep them busy, finding hunt after hunt, because _his_ drug is doing as much good as he can manage, in as little time as possible. And it never hurts to put a little distance between Dean and Jack. So Dean just accepts it, going through the motions, but more and more often he's crawling back to another vice, despite Sam's attempts to keep him from self destruction.

Sam always drives now, because Dean is barely ever sober. 

Life goes on, but Dean falls behind, and every day he watches it get further and further away. 

  
  


_One day life's gonna turn a corner and I'll still be back here,_ Dean thinks with a bitter chuckle. 

It's late, and he lies on a relatively tolerable hotel bed, watching a moth circle the ceiling light, making a pitiful little tapping sound every time it slams its body into the plastic lampshade. Perhaps Dean feels some strange connection to the poor little bastard, killing itself slowly trying to find a moon that it will never have.

Slowly, a sinking feeling comes over him, as he realizes that he won’t really mind if life turns the fucking corner. Everything hurts, and he just wants some peace. He doesn’t want to leave his brother alone, but a tiny voice in his head, poisonously sweet, whispers otherwise. 

_Sammy will be just fine. He's all grown up. And what exactly are you doing now, besides dragging him down? You're dead weight. You're a mess. You're all fucked up and nothing's ever gonna unfuck you._

_Admit it. Sammy is better off without you._ _Isn't he?_

"Fuck," Dean mutters aloud, because sometimes cursing is the only response he has for things that scare him. And that voice scares him, because it made some good points.

The familiar rumble of his baby interrupts his thoughts. Sam is back from a dinner run. Dean turns over and shuts his eyes, pretending to be asleep, because he started this day not wanting to talk to anyone, and he is damn well gonna end it that way too.

The door opens, then clicks shut considerably quieter when Sam realizes Dean is "sleeping." The aroma of takeout Thai food floats in with him. A scent Dean usually loves, now it only makes him feel sick. Most food does that to him these days.

Dean listens to his brother moving softly around the room, his footsteps so light they're nearly imperceptible. How the fuck he's always the stealthy one with that sasquatch body, remains a mystery. Dean hears him busying himself in that signature Sam way, getting things ready for when they'll wake later, zipping duffel bags, pushing chairs back to their spots, retrieving anything they'd left in the bathroom. 

Eventually Sam makes his way to the side of Dean's bed and just…stands there, for almost long enough to make Dean want to peek. Then he lets out a small, sad sigh. 

"I wish I knew how to help you," Sam whispers, almost inaudible. "I'm scared for you. I'm _really_ scared. You have to pull through this, Dean. Please. We're all we have left now."

Dean barely suppresses a flinch. For a moment he wonders if Sam was speaking directly to him, calling his bluff, but he was using that small, vulnerable voice that he only uses when he thinks nobody is listening. It hurts to hear that voice. Dean has only heard it a few times before, and it broke his heart a little each time. 

Sam doesn’t say anything else, but a moment later, Dean feels his canvas jacket being gingerly placed over him as a makeshift blanket.

As soon as he hears Sam settle into bed on the other side of the room and switch the lights off with a sigh, Dean opens his eyes, and just stares into the dark for a long time. 

  
  


Until he hears a sound that doesn’t make sense. 

Doesn’t belong.

Fluttering. He's hearing fluttering. 

  
  


Like _feathers._

  
  


Like _wings._

  
  


Dean's heart starts to pound like a rockslide in his chest, so hard it physically hurts.

It can't be. He won’t dare to hope. He won't dare to look. 

He'd imagined it. This is simply another trick of his sadistic mind, a pathetic fantasy. 

It has to be.

Dean's head is swimming, and it feels like the room is expanding, leaving him alone on a vast plain of static, deafeningly quiet save for the sound of the fabric beneath him straining in his clenched fist. 

And the soft footsteps. 

_Footsteps?_

Dean's eyes snap open. The room still seems too big. A street lamp outside the window bathes everything in sickly orange stripes.

But there's a silhouette in that glow, a familiar shape standing in the dark, making its way slowly forward.

Dean is frozen. How is he here? They burned him. He was _all the way dead._ This can't be real. 

_Could it?_

"Cas…?" He whispers shakily. "Is...that you?"

"Hello Dean," comes the response, in that soft grainy voice Dean has missed so terribly. 

Dean scrambles for the bedside lamp, nearly falling to the floor, his mind racing a thousand miles a minute. He paws desperately for the switch, but goes still when he feels a hand on his wrist. 

"It's alright Dean. We…we don’t need light." He speaks with an odd tone. Almost sad. He sits on the bed slowly, reaches out and touches Dean's face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. 

Dean's breath hitches and he shivers, from the intimacy of the unexpected action as much as how fucking _cold_ Cas is. He reaches up to grip Cas' hand before he can think, and holds on like it's the edge of a cliff.

"Cas what the…h-how are you —" Dean begins, but the angel presses a finger against his lips, sending another chill through him and effectively shutting him up faster than he's ever shut up before. Between the array of intense emotions washing over him at Castiel's touch alone, and the entire half of his brain that's short circuiting at Cas being here at all, Dean can’t function. 

So he's pretty sure his lungs stop working when Cas leans over him to whisper in his ear.

"It's alright. I'm here now. That's all that matters."

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, intoxicated by Castiel's breath on his skin. 

"Just don’t turn on the light. One day I'll answer all your questions, Dean. But I can only stay if you keep the light off. And I can't stay very long."

Dean sits up on his elbows, the spell breaking. He wants so bad to just lie here and get lost in whatever this is, but his hunter instincts are screaming at him. Something about this feels... _off._

"Cas—what are you talking about? You _died_ . I saw you die, I saw you _burn._ What happened? You're alive?! Just…just, what the _fuck?_ "

"Dean. Leave it." Cas suddenly sounds chillingly hostile. 

Dean starts to shake. Panicked, he reaches out and flips the light on before Castiel can react.

Immediately he wishes he hadn't. 

The golden light spills out, illuminating Castiel in stark detail and jagged shadows way too angular for the soft glow.

There's a hole in the back of Cas' trench coat, blood soaking the fabric around it, torn threads sticking to the inside of the wound. The angel's face is drawn and pale, _too pale_ , and he stares sadly, head tilted a little, eyes sunken in dark bluish circles.

Dean feels his blood run frigid. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. 

"Dean…I told you not to turn the lights on," Cas says, sounding utterly heartbroken. "Now I have to go."

Blue-white light starts to grow behind Cas' eyes and inside his mouth. 

"No!" Dean finally finds his voice. "No, no, no!" He grabs at Castiel's sleeve. "Cas please, you can't—,"

The light doesn't slow. It's blinding now, the deafening and electric sound of angel grace being destroyed mingling with that awful, haunting scream. Dean throws his arms around Cas, as if he could somehow save him this time around. The angel collapses, lifeless. 

The room goes silent and dark again.

"No, Cas," Dean chokes. "No, not again, please…I'm sorry Cas I'm sorry…Cas, just come back…"

"Dean." The voice sounds like Cas.

"Dean. Hey. Dean!" Now it's Sam's voice.

  
  


"Wake up!"

  
  


Dean shoots up from the bed with a gasp, biting back a wave of nausea. He looks around frantically, and spots the hazy shape of Sam in the other bed, propped up on one elbow. The lamp that had been on the nightstand is lying on the floor, where Dean must've shoved it over in his sleep.

"You okay man?" Sam asks, voice grainy with sleep and concern.

Dean's heart is pounding so hard that it hurts. He's struggling to slow it down. He's covered in sweat and suddenly freezing, hands clammy and trembling.

He just shakes his head. He's rattled. The image of the light bursting from Castiel's face is playing on a loop in his brain. It had felt so real.

"Do you, um, do you wanna…tell me about it?" Sam sounds like he knows what the answer will be, but can’t help trying anyway.

Dean shakes his head again, tugging anxiously at his hair. He flops back down on the bed and wipes the sweat off his face. 

"Dean, you...you called for Cas," Sam says quietly, and Dean can hear, because he knows it all too well, how difficult it had been to say that name.

Dean takes a long, ragged breath. "Go back to sleep, Sammy," he mumbles, turning to face away from his brother.

"Sure, okay," Sam replies, a little dejectedly. "Seeya in a couple hours."

Dean doesn’t sleep the rest of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters today because i'm a playa i'm a playa


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go on vacation. Dean hits rock bottom.

Sam decided they needed a change of scenery. 

Dean didn't really begrudge him for still trying to make things better, but he did feel sorry for the guy, because none of it would ever help. It's Sam's time to waste though. 

So when Sam announced that they were going to drop off Jack with Jodi and the girls, and head out for a road trip to the west coast, Dean had just shrugged and gone to pack his shit.

The ride to Sioux Falls was tense to say the least. Dean didn't look at Jack the entire time, and he barely manages to force out a stiff farewell when they leave the kid at Jodi's.

After that was over with, though, and the brothers are flying down Highway 70, going far away from where the pieces of Dean's heart still lie by a lake, he starts to feel just a little less broken. Just a little bit lighter. It isn't much, but he takes it for what it is. 

The air tastes pure out here, carrying a crisp green scent. Fluffy white clouds gather on the skyline as the miles and hours pass, eventually becoming obscured by enormous evergreens that sway in slow motion with the wind.

Dean keeps his eyes glued to the window, as much to take in the landscape as to avoid conversation. It hadn't taken long for that slightly lighter feeling to reshape itself into a sort of hazy melancholy. It feels better than the crushing sorrow, but it also holds its own shade of resignation, that's just as heavy to bear, but in different ways. Ways that make Dean worry about the numb emptiness which it has hollowed out of him. But even that worry feels distant, unimportant, like the faint sound of a train whistle from miles away. 

  
  


"Something is wrong with me," Dean says vacantly as they cruise along a winding road, staring out at the massive rocky cliffside on his right. It's adorned all over with nets that are meant to catch falling debris. So if this cliff falls apart, it has the nets to hold it together. 

Dean had nets too, his whole life he had them, a failsafe to keep the landslides inside, to brace him and contain all the rocks and dirt and weeds that wanted to come crashing down.

So where have they gone?

Who is he without them?

"Dean? What, what's wrong?" Sam asks, for what might be the second time. Or maybe the third time. Dean is having trouble focusing his attention.

"I…" Dean begins, but his thoughts aren't in order, and everything is a little pale and fuzzy around the edges. "Something is... _ wrong _ ," he repeats helplessly.

"What is it?" Sam's voice is softer now. "Dean, are you okay?"

" _ No _ ." Dean finally turns back from the window to look at his brother. "I'm not, I'm–I'm...I can't...Sam, every time someone—every time we've lost someone, I was  _ stronger _ . I could get back up, and keep going, and I could put away all of... _ this _ ." He gestures vaguely at himself.

_ This mess. This fucking landslide. _

"But this time. This time I can't. I keep  _ waiting _ for the day I just accept this and fucking forge ahead like I did before, like I  _ always  _ do and I don't  _ understand _ why I can't. I'm—different this time, it's, it's …" he stops, breathless.

"It's Cas," Sam finishes for him.

"It's Cas," Dean echoes quietly, and the name takes up too much space in his throat. "And it's for good. He's gone, really gone this time, we saw him... God, Sammy, we  _ saw _ him die!"

"Never gonna fucking unsee that," Sam says gravely.

"Never," Dean agrees, and he leans his face against the window to stare out again. 

The landscape isn't working to distract Dean this time. He doesn't feel good. The spot between his eyes is too warm. His hands feel too cold. His heartbeat is too loud, too fast, his mouth too wet, his ears are ringing so incessantly, and the angel's name is burning its way back up, smothering his insides with its corrosive mass until there is no heart to beat, no lungs to gasp, and he can't hold this anymore, he  _ has _ to get it out—

"Fuck—pull over–!” Dean croaks, and thankfully, Sam does so without hesitation.

Before they even come to a full stop, Dean is hanging halfway out of the car, clinging to the passenger door as he pukes his guts out on the asphalt. 

\--

At a market in northern Washington, Dean wanders aimlessly, vaguely following Sam as he drops groceries in a green basket. At least, that's what he  _ was _ doing, until he lost his way and ended up in the floral section. 

In some cosmically sadistic way, it works. It's even a little funny. Dean starts to laugh, shaking his head, but the laugh is bitter and sharp, joyless. 

Dean steps further into the circle of buckets, each holding different flowers grouped by color. The air smells sweet, and the delicate blossoms quiver in the breeze from the open exit doors. 

Dean hasn't stopped laughing. 

"Good morning." 

Dean jumps at the voice and turns around, trying his best to look sane. It's an employee, judging by the apron and the cardboard tray full of bruised stems and leaves that she's carrying under one arm. She's old, short, with dark skin covered in freckles and close-cropped white hair. Her eyebrows are drawn in just slightly in a subtly worried expression, her head tilted a bit in an achingly Cas-like way. 

"Anything I can help you with?" She asks. Her southern accent reminds him of home. 

Dean does not think before he answers. He grins for some reason, but it was probably closer to a grimace.

"Yeah, actually. What kinda flowers do you get for someone who got murdered right in front of you?" 

The florist's eyes widen a little, but otherwise she's either unfazed, or really good at pretending to be.

"I am so sorry for your loss," she says softly, "I really am." She actually sounds pretty genuine, and Dean finds himself unable to form a response.

After a moment, the woman takes a breath and continues. "I lost my husband, 14 years ago. Drunk driver hit his bike. It's weird, you never think tragedy is gonna happen to you, and then it does." She smiles sadly. "I'm still thinkin' about him every day. Give yourself lots of time, that's the best thing I can tell you. Even though you didn't ask for my advice."

For a few seconds, Dean just looks at her, really looks, and he can see the time-worn sorrow in her eyes. 

Then he thinks,  _ fuck it. _

_ It's a blue state and I'll probably never see this lady again anyway.  _

"I...I kinda had feelings for him," Dean says quietly, and just as he'd hoped, the old woman simply nods. "But I never said it. I never told him." 

The woman places a gentle hand on Dean's forearm, and he twitches slightly but doesn't pull away. 

"Sweetie, I'm sure you know better than anyone that there is not much I can do or say to make this hurt less."

Dean looks away, feeling a deeply buried pain rise to the surface. The pain of having someone speak to him as if he were their son. 

"I shouldn't be puttin' this on you," he mumbles, suddenly guilty. "I don't even know you...I'm sorry, I just…"

"Nuh-uh, don't you apologize! It's not a problem," she replies immediately. "Trust me, you're not the first person to tell me why they need flowers and you ain't gonna be the last. Besides, you've gotta tell  _ somebody _ , don't you?"

_ No. Maybe other people do.  _ I'm _ supposed to be able to handle this shit. _

Dean says nothing, and he feels a little grateful that the florist doesn't look at all like she expects or wants a reply. 

"Hey, uh, Dean?" Sam appears, holding a paper bag full of groceries in one hand. "You ready to get going? I've got everything." He looks quizzically between the two of them. 

Dean pulls himself together, hoping he's doing a good job of pretending he hadn't wanted to cry just moments ago. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Still need anything?" The florist asks, and Dean can tell she knows the answer. 

"No, it's um...it's fine, that's my brother," he says, forcing his tone to stay casual. "I-I gotta run."

Sam still looks curious, but he slowly starts to head for the exit. Dean hangs back for just a second, and the florist gives him a tiny, sad smile. 

Dean can't find it in him to smile back.

  
\--  
  
  


It was sometime between that conversation with the florist and the drive home two days later, that Dean got it into his head that he needed to go back to the cabin. He needed to visit Castiel. Even if he didn't have any flowers to bring.

"Are you sure that's a good idea for you right now?" Sam asks carefully, as Dean is sliding the car keys off the table and into his pocket. 

"Are  _ you _ sure I give a fuck?" Dean snaps back. "Look, I dunno what's good or bad for me anymore, I'm just doing a thing, okay, just...let me...fucking, live," he grumbles, and walks away as he does, regardless of whatever Sam had to say about it.

Dean hears some sort of reply behind him, but he doesn't care to listen to it. 

He just goes to his car, switches on her beautifully roaring engine, and speeds off into solitude, going way above the speed limit. He turns up the music too loud, not paying attention to whatever is playing, only wanting it for the noise. 

That only makes it all the more jarring to be hit with the silence that falls when Dean arrives and pulls the key from the ignition. The cabin is just up the road, and Dean had stopped a short walk away from it. He isn't really sure why. 

It feels too surreal to be back here. The place looks so harmless and innocent now, with the late afternoon sun filtered through the trees and the lake sparkling in the light. It looks like the sort of home Dean wished he could've had with Castiel, if they'd been different people, in a different world.

But they weren't. 

Dean is  _ this _ failure of a person, in  _ this  _ fucked up world.

And Castiel is gone.

_ Dead. _

The sound of the Impala's door slamming shut is too sharp, slicing through the quiet, soft rustling of leaves and the occasional birdsong.

The crunch of Dean's slow footsteps on the dirt road sounds wrong, like he's disturbing something that isn't meant for him. Like he's trespassing on holy ground, and he's not worthy of it.

As Dean approaches the cabin, despite what he knows it will do to him, his eyes immediately find the spot. 

The wings. 

Burnt black into the ground, the evidence of Castiel's death still looks as stark and devastating as the first night. 

Dean staggers to a stop, looking away, up at the trees, a bird, the sky, the clouds,  _ anything _ else. He scrubs one hand slowly down his face and takes what feels like the longest breath he's ever taken. 

He can't chicken out from this. Cas deserves better than that. 

He forces himself to keep walking.

The next thing he knows, Dean is standing in the same spot that he'd fallen to his knees on that night, staring down at the empty space between the charred shadows of wings. Maybe he never really left.

From a distance, it looked like nothing had changed. But it has. From the blackened earth, tiny plants and blades of young grass are growing. They stand out, greener and more brilliant than the ones in the unmarred soil; stretching for the sun, they're almost glowing. 

It's both beautiful and gut-wrenching all at once. 

_ Bet Cas would've liked this, _ Dean thinks.  _ He'd say it's 'poetic.' _

Dean stares a while longer until he can finally tear his eyes away, and settle them on the remains of the pyre, not much more than ashes now. Just looking at it makes him flinch.

Despite Dean's initial determination to lay Cas to rest somewhere back home, he'd realized with a great deal of shame that he couldn't handle the proximity—and  _ God _ , how he'd tried—so in the end they'd driven back here for the funeral. He'd given Sam the Impala and drove home instead in Castiel's pickup, taking advantage of the solitude to cry his eyes out. 

Dean still hates himself for bringing Cas back here, and here's the evidence of his weakness, long since extinguished, all by itself in the woods.

Slowly,  _ slowly _ he makes his way to it, each step killing him a little more, until he stands in front of it, the scent of ash flooding his lungs.

"Hey, Cas," Dean whispers to the dust and charcoal. To the burnt fragments of wood and bone. To nothing, to everything.

He's answered only by the breeze and the soft lapping of the lake against its bank.

Suddenly Dean can't stand the silence anymore. 

He fumbles for his phone, unlocks it, opens the phone app...and dials Castiel.

It rings once, twice, then—

  
  


"This is my voicemail. Make your voice...a mail."

  
  


Dean claps his free hand over his mouth, stifling something close enough to a sob that even the birds and squirrels shouldn't hear it.

He hangs up, dials again, and closes his eyes.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice...a mail."

"I just wanted to hear  _ your _ voice," Dean says softly, truly not sure if this is helping or hurting. But he keeps doing it.

He dials a fourth time. Of course it's helping. 

Then a fifth. It's not helping.

A sixth. It's definitely hurting.

By the seventh dial, something finally snaps. 

  
  


"...make your voice...a mail."

"Yeah?! I  _ can't! _ " Dean cries in frustration. "I can't, Cas. You're  _ gone!  _ You're  _ fucking gone! _ " 

The rage had burst out with no warning, like opening a door to escape a fire, only to have that fire surge forth to consume the new oxygen, rush in to engulf you. And in that split second you realize you're not going to escape, that all you've done is pull the fire to you, that you're not going to survive. Then everything is blinding red, searing agony, smoke, ashes. 

So Dean burns, and burns, and burns, overcome with helpless fury. He  _ needs _ to destroy something and there's nothing here to go after. He just barely stops himself from flinging his phone into the lake.

"You left me alone, Cas, you  _ fucker! _ " Dean throws his phone down hard at his feet instead. "Why'd you have to die? Why?! I don't know how to fucking  _ live _ anymore! I  _ hate _ you, Castiel," he yells, his voice echoing uselessly off the trees, startling a few birds from their branches. "I fucking  _ hate you! _ "

Nothing answers. The only sound is that of his own labored breathing. His throat hurts, scraped raw by the outburst. The small cloud of dust that had risen from the phone's impact slowly settles again. Dean collapses heavily to the ground with it, his limbs feeling like they've turned to lead, the rage that had gripped him for mere seconds suddenly spent and vanished. 

"You  _ left _ me." Dean can't believe this voice is his own, so lost and distant, so fucking  _ broken.  _ "Just come back. Please, please just come home."

Dean has no clue why he hadn't yet stomped out the tiny, tiny glimmer of hope he still held warm and quiet inside him, that maybe  _ this _ time, when he opens his eyes, Castiel will be there.

From now on though, he will fucking know better. Because when he opens his eyes, and he's still alone, he actually lets his heart sink, as if there'd been a chance at all.

No Castiel. Never again.

Dean sits there, barely moving, losing track of time. Watching the postcard landscape slowly wind down as darkness falls. Watching all the colors wash to blue, then gray, then charcoal. He sits there until the sky sparkles with winking stars, and the moon rises to drape the water in silvery light.

Dean watches a duck float soundlessly out from somewhere on the lake, followed by a small trail of ducklings, much clumsier as they paddle and splash with their oversized feet. The mother duck glides into a dense patch of reeds near the bank, and one by one each duckling slips into the shadows after her, peeping softly.

There was something so pure about that little duck journey across the water. So innocent, so far outside of the reasons Dean has for being here to see it. This is a happy place for them, instead of a place scarred by grief and regret. Those ducklings will grow up here, and every night they will snuggle up in the tall grass with their mom, until each one goes their separate ways.

If Dean had been told a month ago that he would be brought to tears by looking at ducks, he would've laughed. But that was then. Something in him splinters to pieces as the last duckling vanishes into the reeds, and he just...breaks down.

For a few minutes, Dean can hardly even breathe, doubled over with the sudden avalanche of emotion, painful sobs dragging out of him. He is engulfed, unable to feel anything else but this  _ hurt.  _ He starts to wonder if the tears will ever subside, or if he'll just keep on crying until he passes out from exhaustion. 

Dean feels too helpless for words. This wasn't fair. Castiel was good, he was so  _ good _ ,  _ how _ could he have deserved to die like that? Why did it have to be him? And why didn't God even fucking care? Dean truly doesn't think he'll ever figure out how to cope.

Eventually, Dean uncurls himself and collapses onto his back in the grass, his chest heaving. He reaches out and picks up his phone. Stares at it for several seconds. He wants to call Cas' voicemail again. But the truth is it would only make him sadder. He gazes up at the stars and they're beautiful, he knows this; but he feels nothing. 

Dean tosses his phone away, out of his own reach. 

He doesn't touch it again until it rings sometime later, and Sam is on the other end, imploring him to come home.

Dean doesn't come home. He falls asleep, right there where he's too weak to get up from, and he drives back in the morning. 

He doesn't speak a single word that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pain is almost over, hang in there


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes some confessions. John Winchester was a bad parent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smol chapter today, I promise the next chapter will tape your heart back up

Another several days pass by in a sluggish blur. 

Another hunt, another town crawling with teenagers too curious for their own good. Dean isn’t getting better, but he's getting better at pretending. He's sober tonight at least, behind the wheel of the Impala, driving down a stretch of wooded, disheveled road.

The hunt had been a failure. At least far as Dean is concerned. 

Sure, they'd torched the creepy fucking masks, killed the ghost, done the job. But they'd been too late. Kids are still dead. Parents are devastated. That doesn't feel like a win at all. 

Hunts don't always go the way they should have. Sometimes people don’t get saved. Every time an innocent dies on his watch, Dean beats himself up about it, but this time it's just so heavy. The guilt and self-hatred are working double time. He feels deeply tired, like his bones could crumble into little fragments at any moment. 

If he couldn't even succeed at the one thing that he's useful for, what does he have left? 

  
  


It had felt  _ good _ to stop being alive for a little while.

  
  


Pushing that dangerous thought into a corner by itself, Dean steers into the tiny gravel parking lot of this week's shitty hotel. A single dirty window at the reception area glows feebly, and with the help of a flickering porch lamp, it casts a barely passable amount of light on the front steps. The hotel and lot are swallowed in shadow save for that one spot.

Dean parks the car and Sam gets out, going around to open up the trunk. Alone in silence, Dean lays his forehead down on the steering wheel for a moment, letting the weary, troubled sigh he's been holding back finally escape.

Before Sam can pop in asking about his feelings, Dean pulls himself together, gets out, and grabs a duffel bag, and they head inside to the dingy room.

  
  


Dean drops his bag on the floor and sinks down on the greenish box spring bed, causing a long, protesting creak. The comforter smells like a thrift store sweater, musty and waxy, but Dean has slept on worse. He lowers his head and tries to rub away a dull headache from his temples. 

Sam tosses his jacket on the other bed and pauses, then turns to Dean.

"That job was kind of a bust, wasn't it?" He says with a sigh. It was the first words either of them had spoken in hours.

Dean looks up. Inwardly he's relieved to hear that Sam feels the same way. He isn’t alone in this, at least. But even that barely seems to matter.

"Yeah. It was. I couldn't save those kids. What's the goddamn point if I can't save the poor bastards that need saving?"

"Dude, it is not your fault murderous ghosts exist," Sam replies immediately. "I know it sucks, believe me, I wish we had saved those kids too, Dean, I really do. I feel like crap about it. But we can't save everyone every time."

"I can fucking try," Dean snaps, "and I failed them, Sam."

"We," Sam says quietly, " _ we _ failed them. Not you. Us. I'm not letting you fail by yourself." There's something like fury in the last sentence, though he didn’t raise his voice at all.

Dean stays silent for several minutes. He feels undeserving of this support. He deserves to fail alone. He puts his head back in his hands, hiding from Sam, who has returned to busying around the room, but hasn't taken his eyes off Dean. He's waiting for a response.

_ Just smile and nod, _ comes Dean's default solution. 

_ Tell him you're fine. _

_ Smile and nod. _

But somewhere between his mind and the open air, something gets lost in translation.

What comes out isn’t some sort of feigned stability to appease his brother. 

Dean hardly recognizes his own voice, screaming inside to swallow the words back down before they escape. It's no use.

  
  


"I tried to stay," he whispers.

  
  


Sam stops and sits on his bed across from Dean, frowning with confusion and worry. 

"Stay where, Dean?"

  
  


"Dead." 

  
  


Dean's throat feels like it has turned into crumbling drywall. His heart thumps slow but so heavy it's almost painful. He can't stop himself now. The words just keep spilling out.

  
  


"I tried to stay dead, Sammy." 

  
  


He meets his brother's eyes and braces himself for the talking to he's about to get hit with. Panic briefly flashes across Sam's face, then anger, then a deep, terrible sorrow that makes Dean regret every choice he's ever made in his life.

"Dean…why—why would you say that?" Sam asks, voice shaking a little. Dean can tell he knows why. He's just in disbelief, and buying time to process what he's just heard.

"Cause it's true," Dean replies numbly. "I tried to stay dead, but Billie sent me back. I didn’t wanna come back, man. God, Sam, I feel like I'm fuckin' dying already, why not just finish the job?" 

He really hadn't planned on sharing so much, but some kind of flood gate had been torn down, and now he's powerless to repair it.

Sam looks so unnerved, like he's going to cry, and suddenly Dean feels very guilty. He watches Sam make several tries before he actually manages to speak.

"You  _ can't _ ."

"Thing is, Sammy, I can," Dean says bitterly. "And I would've."

Sam looks away, shaking his head, dragging one hand over his face, trying to compose himself. A moment later he faces Dean again. 

"Talk to me, Dean. Please just fucking  _ talk _ to me. I'm begging, man.  _ Please _ ."

Dean has no strength left to deflect that plea anymore. So he talks.

"I miss him," he says simply, but there was so much loaded into those three words. 

They sit in a burdened silence for what was probably a few minutes, but felt far longer. Sam is staring down at his hands, looking for all the world like a glum little kid.

"I miss him too," he murmurs.

Dean starts shaking his head, deciding that he's already in too deep. In for a penny and all that.

"No…no, you don’t understand, Sam."

"I think I do," Sam says, looking up again, his face unreadable but strangely focused.

"You don't. You don't understand. Sam, I…I…," Dean can feel his throat constricting. The air is too thin to breathe in and too thick to breathe out. The room is too small, too quiet. His hands are shaking.

  
  


"Sam…I loved him." 

  
  


Ignoring every effort, Dean's voice breaks, but he sets his jaw defiantly. He is gonna get done with this, and he is not gonna fucking cry halfway through. Sam begins to reply, but Dean holds up a hand to stop him.

"Not—not the way you think. Not the way that you loved him. Different. Like I…I wanted to be… _ with _ him. Like a gay thing." Dean chokes out a tiny, mournful laugh. "Cas was my gay thing, Sam." 

He keeps laughing, a quiet and joyless sound, and at some point it becomes soft crying, and Dean has lost all the will to hate himself for it. Sam just sat there with him for however long it was, a silent but somehow so reassuring presence.

When Dean finally pulls himself together, wiping his eyes with one hand and cursing under his breath, he looks up at his brother expectantly.

"Well?" He says, incredulous at Sam's still steady gaze. "Aren't you gonna say something? Let me have it. Don’t sit there like I didn't just drop a bomb on you."

"You, um," Sam runs a hand through his hair, "you kinda didn't."

" _ 'Scuse me? _ "

"You didn't. Dean…I've known for a while."

Dean does what could probably be considered a triple take.

"Known what? About Cas, or…?"

"About all of it. And you and Cas…Dean, I've never seen you look at  _ anyone _ more affectionately than you looked at Cas. You stuck up for him when nobody else did. You forgave him for things you'd kill anyone else for." Sam lets out a small, sad laugh. "You always got so pissy when he wasn't calling you. I saw it all from the start. God, Dean, what you must be going through. I'm so sorry, man."

Dean supposes he hadn't been half as discreet as he'd thought. The whole fucking world probably knew.

"So you never said anything? You knew and you never said?"

"Dude," Sam looks a little incredulous, "uh, that’s called outing someone. You don’t just do that. It's a major dick move. I could tell you were hiding it, and it wasn’t my business to question your reasons. I figured you would tell me when or if you were ready. But you know I never would've judged you, right? And I'm not judging you now."

"Yeah," Dean mutters, "I know  _ you _ wouldn't."

"And who the hell else matters?" Sam asks, sounding like he was ready to throw down with some hypothetical person.

_ Well, here we go _ , Dean thinks. _ We really are spilling the whole goddamn pot of beans today. _

"Sam," he begins apprehensively, "do you, um…do you remember that time we stayed in Colorado for like, almost 3 whole months? I was like 17. And when we left I was…kinda bruised up and shit was really tense?"

"Yeah," Sam answers, "Englewood, right? Dad was real pissed because you screwed up on a hunt, you two didn’t speak to each other for days." 

"Well, um, I didn’t screw up on a hunt. And I didn't get those bruises on a hunt."

Memories he'd forced down so far he rarely thought about them are returning, and he feels panic clawing its way up his ribs just from recalling them. Dean sees his brother's eyes flicker from inquisitive to dark and furious in the span of a second.

"Who hurt you then?!" He demands, as if he could summon them and beat them to a pulp right now. Dean starts to backpedal. 

"Okay, look, Sam, I—don't get me wrong man, it-it wasn't all that bad, I mean it hurt yeah, b-but it's really more about context—,"

Sam stops him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, easy, man. Begin at the beginning, and I'll just listen, promise. I just…feel like I know where this is going and it pisses me off. That's all. I'm sorry. Just tell me everything, and this time I won't interrupt."

Dean nods shakily and continues. "Okay, so uh, yeah, Colorado. That highschool I went to for those months. I um…I met somebody there." 

_ Remember to breathe. It's just Sam. _

"It was a guy. I met…I met a guy. His name was—never mind, it-it doesn't matter, but we, um, we were kinda foolin' around. I liked him. Didn't love him. But y'know, we were kids, it was just a fling. So the day we left that town, and, and Dad came to pick me up, and I wasn’t there? I was young, and I was stupid, and I—I lost track of time, and I wasn’t out front like I was supposed to be, because I was…I was with the guy. 

"We actually thought nobody would catch us. Under the bleachers, Sammy. Shit you not. We were making out under the fucking  _ bleachers _ like, like it was a fucking chick flick. Like that wasn’t the first place everyone looks for a teenage boy, well wouldn’t you know, that was where Dad looked for me." 

Dean pauses for breath, studying his hands to avoid looking at Sam.

"Thing is," he goes on after a few anxious moments, "Dad thought he'd find me with a girl. The look on his face when he realized what I was doing, I'll never fucking forget it. I didn’t know what to do. I knew I was dead meat. He didn’t even say anything, Sam, he just grabbed my arm and started draggin' me across the field and I…I dunno what happened, man, I just got pissed. 

"I started fightin' him, stupid idea but I did. Started whining about somethin' or other and Dad looked me right in the face and he said 'you were with a boy, Dean.' Asked me if I 'know what that means.' I…I tried to get my arm out of his grip, and we were shouting at each other, and—and shit just got outa hand, y'know?

"He told me I'd walk it off, and it served me right anyway. He told me I wasn’t to say anything about any of it and I got my ass beat on a hunt and that's what we would tell you. It was a shitty coverup, but you were a kid. Of course you believed it. 

Dean isn't even looking up, but he can feel Sam tense, hear him inhale through his teeth. 

"I don’t think he meant to go that far. And he apologized, a couple days later. But only for the fight, nothing else. And I knew why. I don’t give a shit about some bruises, man. It was the  _ reason _ that it happened, that was what hurt. Dad taught me a lesson that day, and I wish it hadn't stuck with me but it did. Dammit, Sam, you know I loved the old man but I…I  _ hated _ him for that. I never forgave him for it. Even now."

Dean sighs, long and exhausted and sad. But he can feel the weight on his shoulders grow lighter. All these years, this secret had been only his, poisoning him slowly from the inside. Now it's out. He can share the weight for once in his life. He tentatively looks up from his hands.

"Sam, I was just a kid." For some fucked up reason Dean wants to make excuses for his past self. "I…I just, was struggling with it for years, and I just wanted to try not hating myself for a minute, you know? That was my first and only rebellious phase. That was the last time I disobeyed Dad until…until not killing you, Sammy."

Sam's eyes are filled with that gentle care that could calm a mountain lion, but somewhere in there Dean can still see some of the burning, righteous anger bleed through.

"When I said I knew where this was going, Dean," he says softly, "I was really hoping to be wrong."

"Yeah, well, what can you do," Dean replies way too lightly, "anyway story time's over, now you know." 

He finds himself unable to keep up the casual tone, though. His voice turns small and hopeless again.

"Now you know why I never said anything to Cas."

Dean stares up to the ceiling and swallows hard. 

"It just hurts, Sammy. It hurts so much and…and I don't know what's wrong with me, I can't fucking fix myself, I don't know how or even if I can and I—I'm scared, man. It's bad. It's really bad."

"Alright." Sam plunks down next to him. "C'mere." He pulls Dean into a bear hug, and Dean accepts it. "Don’t feel guilty for grieving," Sam tells him. "You can be a mess for as long as you need to. And I'll be here. Even if that’s all I can do, I'll be here, Dean. Just don’t die, okay?" 

"I'll try," Dean replies, still not entirely sure he will.

"Good." Sam lets him go and stands up, heading for the bathroom. "I'm gonna brush my teeth. Get some sleep. I mean it." His tone was good-natured, and for just a second it feels like a regular night, Dean up too late, Sam brushing his teeth for the second time that day. 

Dean lets himself pretend.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finAlly gets his honey back. lots of feelings are felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy International Fanworks Day, y'all! Have a new chapter.

It was only three hours later that alarms buzzed, bags were packed, and the hotel room was abandoned under the cover of night. 

The boys are back on the road. A few hours of driving will find them home, where they can be safe enough to get real sleep. Not that Dean sees much of that these days. 

He'd been so emotionally drained, though, that his three hotel hours actually hadn't been bad. No dreams, just a dense, silent abyss that swallowed him for what felt like only five minutes. Not the best by far, but he prefers just about anything to the persistent nightmares. Even if that means he gets no sleep at all. 

Dean squints at himself in the rearview mirror. His eyes are sunken, haunted. Sure, he feels a lot less heavy after telling Sam the big fucking secret, but really, what was the point? Too little, too late. He should've told Cas all that shit. 

And now that he's said it—now that it's real— in some ways everything hurts more. Dean is at a complete loss for what to do with all these emotions. He just wants them gone. He wants to feel nothing,  _ be _ nothing.

On a normal day, Dean would've found a peaceful kind of comfort in late night driving, his brother asleep beside him, the car quiet and safe. The warm rumble of the engine and the soft rush of wind were good company. 

But there are no more normal days, and won’t be for a long time. Maybe never again. 

Drowning Dean's existence now is a dull, melancholy finality, like driving by a graveyard and catching a glimpse of someone else's funeral. 

Except he never actually passes the graveyard. He carries it with him instead. Everywhere he goes.

Dean switches the radio on, and turns the volume down low until he almost can't hear it, just to put something in his head besides himself. He rolls his window up, shutting out the crisp night air that he used to love, and settles in for the long ride home with a sigh. 

  
  


It's just when he's beginning to zone out in earnest that Dean's cell rings, nearly giving him a heart attack.

On his right, Sam stirs, half awake. Dean raises an eyebrow and picks up the call. 

  
  


"Yeah?" He half-heartedly answers.

  
  
  


"Hello, Dean," comes the response.

  
  
  


Dean goes completely still.

His heart stops. Jolts. Picks back up and it's in his throat now, pounding away like it wants to burst out of him.

  
  


He'd know that voice anywhere. 

Good God, it can't be—

Dean swerves the car right and screeches to a halt on the shoulder. Still holding the phone, Dean just stares straight ahead, no air in his lungs, unable to pick his jaw up off the core of the earth where it had landed. 

"What's going on?" Sam frantically demands. "Who is it?"

The person on the other end of the call draws a breath, and Dean feels it softly electrify every last cell in his body. 

"Dean?" The voice says. That beautiful, gravelly voice.

" _ C…Cas— _ ?" Dean whispers weakly, almost inaudible. It's all he can manage to say.

"Yes. Yes, it's me. I'm alive now, and I'm on Earth. I'm back."

Dean can hear the smile in his voice. 

Dean's head spins. 

This is too much. 

"It's so good to hear your voice again, Dean," Cas adds softly.

Okay,  _ that _ was more than too much. 

Dean is gonna fucking break down. This can't be real. It  _ has _ to be a trap, some kind of trick,  _ something _ . 

But the hope, unbridled and reckless, already has its hooks in him, and it swept away all the caution he should probably be having. 

"It's Cas?!" Sam shouts. "Dean. He's  _ alive _ ?"

Dean finally finds his words.

"Cas—Cas, how? Y-you were gone, I…I saw you...We burned you." He glances at Sam as he speaks, eyes wide. Sam is agape. 

"Dean, is it really him?!'

Dean just stares back helplessly, his heart beating so hard now he can feel it in his skull. Tears well up in his eyes.

"I know, Dean," Cas answers quietly, "but I'm here now." 

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, losing himself in the intoxicating sound of Castiel's voice.

"Let's meet," Cas goes on, "I'll explain everything."

  
  
  
  


Sam speculates excitedly the entire ride, because he is Sam, and that's what he does. It's mostly one-sided. Dean is so floored he can hardly think, let alone have an actual conversation. It's a wonder that he's even pulling off driving. 

Part of him is pacing, anxious, terrified that this is all too good to be true, but the rest of him is alive,  _ so _ alive, hope like sparks flying in his chest, enraptured with even the tiniest chance that there isn't a catch. It's purely overwhelming after weeks of feeling so horribly empty. 

So when they roll to a stop in a boring, regular dark alley, with a boring, regular payphone at the end, and a  _ beautiful fucking angel _ standing next to it, Dean's whole nervous system is leaping and spinning and doing flips. He can barely even register what he's looking at.

Castiel is waiting patiently by the phone booth, with that same old infuriating level of humility, like he isn't that big of a deal. 

For the life of him, all Dean wants in the world at this moment is to touch Castiel. To know if he's  _ real _ . 

But all at once Dean is hit with a hollow dread at the thought of the last time he'd touched Cas; he'd been cold and faceless, wrapped up in torn white curtains. Unrecognizable.  _ Dead. _

Dean looks over at Sam, silently pleading for something; he doesn’t even know what. Sam smiles a little and offers him a pat on the shoulder. 

"Hey, take a breath, man. Whatever happens, we see it through, okay?" 

Sam is probably pretty apprehensive about this too, but he's being the supportive little nerd that Dean needs right now, and Dean is actually really grateful for it. 

He nods unsteadily and kills the engine, plunging them into a sudden silence. Dean's hands are shaking uncontrollably, and he keeps staring helplessly at Sam for a long moment until he gets a small nod in reply.

After a beat, the two clamber out of the Impala, Dean gathering up as much courage as he possibly can, forcing his legs to keep him upright. It's difficult. They really want to give out on him.

There's Castiel, same as ever, tax accountant getup and all. Like he had never been gone.

Dean just stares, dumbstruck, perfectly still, as Cas explains his resurrection. 

He literally  _ escaped  _ death? By annoying the shit out of some kinda…what? A god? 

Because Castiel  _ would _ come back from the dead with a story like that, wouldn't he? 

That's when Dean snaps out of it. All at once his fear begins to disintegrate. 

This is his Castiel. 

It  _ has _ to be.

It just  _ can't _ be anyone else.

Before he even realizes he's moved, Dean is closing the distance between them, throwing caution to the wind. He flings his arms around Castiel, buries his face in the angel's shoulder, closes his eyes as they start to prickle. His heart is racing so fast he can't even think.

"Cas," Dean half-sobs into Castiel's shirt. It's all he can manage to say.

Cas pulls him in close, holding him tightly. 

"Dean," he murmurs, trailing one hand briefly through Dean's hair before settling it just below his neck. 

Dean shivers and inhales unsteadily, trembling in Castiel's arms. It felt like the first breath he's taken in weeks, like he's been breathing all this time but never getting any oxygen until now. That breath was filled with the familiar scent of Castiel, earthy and sweet like the forest after rain, and a little bit like sunshine. It's unreal. If this is a dream, Dean genuinely hopes the Djinn enjoys its dinner, because he never wants to wake up. 

Dean's fingers tighten around the handfuls of Cas' trench coat, gripping desperately, crushing him, needing to be as close to him as humanly possible. Is he going too far? Maybe. Is this out of line? Probably. But he can't help it. Cas is warm and real and alive— _ alive! _ —and Dean can feel the real, live heartbeat against his own chest, and he's home, right here in this embrace he's finally home, and  _ God _ if he could only stay like this forever—

"Okay, c'mon, quit hogging Cas, lemme get in there," Sam chuckles from behind him. 

Dean withdraws slowly, letting one hand linger on Castiel's sleeve, drinking in that blue gaze for one more exalted moment, before backing up to let Sam give the angel a big hug. 

Dean feels so many beaten, broken, scattered pieces of him carefully knitting back together, the great empty hole in him being patched up at last. So much grief and despair just washed away all at once. The elation is so powerful it almost hurts. 

Dean turns halfway away from the other two for a moment to compose himself, feeling tears of relief well in his eyes again as he lifts them to the sky. His deep-seated instincts are clocking back in to tell him that an entire chick flick could've been made around that hug alone, so the levels of sappy have been met and exceeded for the day.

_ But Cas. Cas is alive. _

"Let's go home, guys," he hears Sam say, as he passes Dean, pushing Cas ahead of him. "I'll take the back this time."

Cas grins, way too pleased, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that always made Dean's heart melt a little.

"Hey, don’t get too comfy, man," Sam adds, huffing a small laugh as he ducks into the back seat. "I'm only relinquishing shotgun because you just returned from the dead. And that shares at least half the DNA with a birthday. Enjoy it while you can."

"Oh, I assure you I will." Cas gets in beside Dean, exaggeratedly caressing the dashboard. "I will  _ savor _ it," he growls. Sam just snorts in response. 

Dean shifts restlessly in his seat, fixing his eyes on the street as they roll out. He loves Castiel's rare moments of humor; everyone does, but  _ damn _ if he hadn't missed that deep voice a  _ little _ bit more than he thought. 

_ Jeez, I'm fucking horrible, _ Dean thinks.  _ Dude literally  _ just _ got back from the dead and I already wanna jump his bones. _

Blissfully unaware of Dean's degeneracy, Cas continues to goad Sam, petting everything he can reach like the car is covered in velvet. Dean has never wished he was the dashboard more than he does now.

"Oh my God," Sam chuckles from the back. "You're a sore winner, Cas! How did I  _ just _ find this out?"

"I'll turn this car around," Dean warns them. 

Damn, when was the last time they had immature banter in the car? Feels like it could've been years ago.

"Mom, Dad, can we get McDonald's?" Sam yells. "Are we there yet?"

"We have food at home, and no!" Dean says, trying to keep a serious face. 

"But Mom!" 

"Nope. Nuh-uh." The serious face fails. Dean starts cracking up. It really has been too long since he's laughed. Forever since he's genuinely smiled.

Castiel snickers and turns almost all the way around to look pointedly at Sam. 

_ God the sound of his laughter, _ Dean thinks—

"Listen to your mother, Samuel." Cas says, then turns back to Dean. "But we really should get burgers, darling."

Dean feels his entire face grow hot. If it wasn't possible to blush all the way down to your fucking toes, he has just invented it.

"Okay, fuck both of you, I'm putting music on," he grunts, and pops a cassette into the tape deck. He skips to the first cheesy song he can find—Keep on Loving You—and immediately starts singing along. It's payback time. 

Cas and Sam loudly protest, and Dean cackles between lyrics as he disregards the speed limit. Together they all ride the amazingly unreal high of just being happy for once. 

Baby finally feels like a second home again.

  
  


\---

  
  


Dean's captive audience had to put up with more than a few ballads before he finally decided they were even, mostly because Sam's snarky remarks had gotten more and more drowsy, ending with him falling asleep during Right Here Waiting. Dean finishes the song anyway though, his tone slowly changing from the playfully terrible to something lower and softer, as he keeps on checking that Cas is still real. And he tells himself that he's  _ not _ singing this disgustingly sweet song at Cas, no, of  _ course _ not.

Every time Dean's eyes leave Cas, a small bolt of fear shakes him, and then he'll reassure himself with a glance to the right, and his heart swells again. The back and forth is dizzying, maybe even a little stressful, but Dean can't figure out how to be unhappy right now.

The clock is creeping toward the small hours, but it's still peacefully dark as they cruise down the empty road in companionable silence. At least until Dean—who had slipped contentedly into the lull of night driving—suddenly realizes that Cas has been studying him for some time.

"Penny for your thoughts," he says casually, still facing forward, but stealing a glance that he hopes is at least  _ close _ to subtle, but is probably disastrous.

Cas looks away a little sheepishly, and remains silent for a moment, tugging at a stray thread on the end of his blue tie. It is such an endearingly human thing to do, Dean can't help but smile. Cas worries at the thread until it frays loose, then twirls it back and forth between his fingers.

"I missed you, Dean," he says finally, his voice low and small, "so much."

Dean is caught way off guard, and he turns to look at Cas, heart suddenly thumping in his ears. Cas stares clean through to his soul, with big, sad eyes, biting his lower lip like he's afraid he said something wrong. 

The next few seconds feel like minutes. Dean's grip tightens on the steering wheel, then he quickly loosens it again, because he doesn't wanna look like he's nervous or something. For Pete's sake, Dean  _ cannot _ tear his eyes away from Castiel's mouth. God, how he wants to taste those lips, to touch them, to feel them on his own skin, and that's a problem because now that Cas is  _ here, _ Dean is terrified to confess anything to him. 

Dean knows he has to reply before he starts to look like he needs a reboot, but all he can think is  _ I love you I love you I love you. Kiss me. Fuck me. I fucking love you. You're here and you're alive and I love you so much I could go mad. _ He swallows those thoughts down as best he can. Back down where they belong. Tucked away in that warm, cozy little corner where he'll curl up when he's all alone.

"I missed you too, Cas," Dean manages, way more emotion in his voice than he'd intended. The words come out wobbly and frail. "God, I almost lost my…"

_ Fucking marbles? _ He finishes inwardly.  _ Get it together Dean. _

"I…it-it's been...rough," he says instead, quickly focusing back on the road. 

Another silence blankets them for a while. Dean listens to his brother snoring softly in the back seat and wills his nerves to calm down. It isn't much use. He's a mess inside, like a kid's box of toys upended, its contents scattered across the floor, colorful shapes somehow losing all meaning and sense once they tumbled free of the whole.

Cas speaks up again. "I'm sorry, Dean. It…my death…it was my fault. Ultimately." 

The pain and regret in his voice makes Dean physically flinch before he can even stop himself. 

_ My death.  _

Dean shudders. He never wants to hear Cas say that again. Ever.

"I should have known taking a shot at Lucifer was essentially suicide." Cas' voice gets quieter. "I…I wasn't thinking."

" _ Dammit, _ Cas," Dean begins, then checks himself, lowering his voice so he won't wake up Sam. "Cas, nobody blames you for this, okay? And don't you  _ dare _ blame yourself, man, don’t you fuckin' dare. Sure, shanking the Devil maybe wasn’t Idea of The Year, but we've all been there, all of us. That son of a bitch  _ murdered _ you, alright? That is not on you. And if the fucker ever finds his way back here, I swear I'll kill him myself. I am never gonna let you die again, on my goddamn  _ life _ ." 

Dean exhales, feeling his throat burn and his hands start to shake.

Cas looks a bit flustered at Dean's reaction, but then he offers a small, slightly sad smile, but a smile nonetheless, and Dean gathers that smile inside his soul and holds it tight.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas says softly. "But you know, you should take your own advice."

" _ Hah _ ," Dean retorts, "day after never." It was meant to be at least a little funny, but it falls flat, because they both know it's true. 

For a few moments, they just look at each other, silently taking each other in. Until Dean actually starts to wonder if his human body will be able to contain all the bright and warm and colorful things he's feeling, or if he'll just break apart into atoms and happily cease to exist. So he forfeits the staring contest, hiding his stupid grin behind a small shake of his head.

Cas turns to stare out the window at the passing fields, and Dean does his best to return his attention to driving. His heart aches and sings for the angel beside him all at once, and his chest hurts, and his eyes are stinging, but for the first time in weeks, he actually  _ wants _ to be alive.

When the trip home is finally at an end, the three of them sit in silence for a few moments in the car, just processing the past few hours. 

Sam leaves first though, offering some rehearsed excuse before he practically teleports out of the garage. Dean knows Sam is trying to get him alone with Cas, and… well, fuck, he's kinda thankful. Cas is definitely scrambling Dean's brain right now, but it's not really in a bad way. Just a way that makes his face too warm, makes him blink too much and breathe differently and try to occupy his hands with something. 

As it is, this leads to Dean sitting perfectly still, not moving a single muscle, to try and avoid giving himself away. He's barely even breathing, because if he does it's going to sound  _ so _ fucking loud. His lungs just expand until they press against his ribs, then deflate as slowly as humanly possible.

"Are you alright?" Cas asks gently, startling Dean enough to snatch away all of his carefully held breath.

"Yeah," Dean gasps, "yeah, I…"

_ I'm in heaven,  _ he thinks.  _ I'm so alright it's a little intimidating. _

Dean lets his hands drop from the steering wheel, hides them in his lap because they're trembling now, and he says nothing else because he can't speak anymore, but he looks over at Cas, and Cas is  _ alive.  _

And all of the sudden, Dean needs to cry. 

So he lowers his head to hide his face, and tries to laugh instead. It doesn't work. The tears just fall, whether he wants them to or not. As they drop down onto his jeans, Dean pictures the blood dripping from his hand to the cabin floor all those days ago, and then he's reminded of the reason for it, and then all the memories of the past weeks light up like exploding fuses in his mind, one after another.

But Cas is back now. He's alive but just a handful of hours ago he  _ wasn't _ —Dean had been in so much pain he was ready to  _ die _ because he couldn't take it anymore—and now it's all just...over. Fixed. And Dean can't believe it but it's right in front of him. It's real.

It's real and so fucking overwhelming.

"Dean," Cas says, and his voice wavers with confused worry. 

Dean wants to reassure Cas, tell him that it's okay, but he doesn't know how to explain that he's crying  _ because _ he's okay. Finally. After having surrendered to never being okay again.

So he just shakes his head helplessly, and stays silent until he's calmed down a little. Enough to talk, anyway.

"I'm...just… it's so good to have you back," Dean says at last. "So fucking good. And I, um…"

_ I love you _ . 

He almost says it. 

_ I love you and I wasn't planning on living past this night. _

Almost.

"I'm happy, Cas," Dean goes on instead. "And it's just—a lot. Guess I'm a little out of practice with being this happy." He actually manages a small laugh this time. 

He almost said it. He was so close.

Cas doesn't reply. He just reaches out, hesitates for a second, then carefully places his hand on Dean's forearm. Dean is sure it's in his head, but he convinces himself that Castiel's touch—the weight of it or the press of his fingertips or maybe the way he's lingering—it's different than it used to be, somehow. 

But no. 

It isn't. Of course it isn't. That's ridiculous.

A guy can dream, though.

Closing his eyes for a beat, Dean gets a grip on the fear that's been clawing at his insides, soothes it until it stops snarling and snapping, until it lies down and curls up to rest. He lets the warmth of Castiel flood him. And then he needs more. 

Suddenly, before he can stop himself, Dean leans over and wraps his arms around Cas.

Cas hugs him back without pause, even scoots closer so they can hold each other properly, and Dean can already feel the rest of his frayed nerves being tamed. 

"Don't you ever die again," Dean whispers. His voice is uneven, shaky, but he doesn't care. 

Cas is alive.

"I'll do my best," Cas says, and Dean can feel him smile against his shoulder. It's a lovely thing to feel.

The moment he'd seen Cas alive, Dean had known that there was no way one hug would be enough to communicate everything he couldn't say. 

The hug you give someone when they're back from the dead is unlike any other. It feels amazing, of course. But it's also saturated with a desperate, nearly manic relief that doesn't sit very far from pure adrenaline. Your heart and mind race and you get dizzy enough to topple over. It's like drinking an entire bottle of whiskey and then launching yourself up from the couch. It happens on its own and you're just along for the ride.

But this. This embrace is different. It's deliberate, slow, purposeful. Softer, somehow. This has to be described with scarier words, words like  _ tender. Intimate. Beautiful _ , even. The fragile things that couldn't be expressed in the moment, because they need time to sink in.

This makes Dean truly understand how to breathe again. He'd suffocated for so fucking long.

The hug lasts longer than it probably should've, but for once in his life, Dean's not going to judge himself for it, at least not now. He's just too content. And besides, Cas doesn't seem to mind. In fact, it's Cas who pulls Dean back to him for an extra second or two, when Dean had finally started to withdraw. 

They take a deep breath together, just once more, and then they separate, climb out of the car, and leave the garage, as if nothing happened. As if they didn't just have a moment that could easily be called romantic— and sure as hell felt that way.

  
  


"You should rest," Cas says when they're back in the hallways of the bunker, and Dean agrees wholeheartedly through a yawn. But when they arrive at Dean's bedroom door, they may as well have hit an invisible wall. Dean's not sure what Cas' reason for lingering is, but he knows what his own is. He's honestly a little scared to let Cas out of his sight.

Dean clears his throat, fidgets a little, licks his lips. Then, fast enough to surprise himself, straight out of  _ left fucking field, _ he just  _ says _ it.

"Cas, would you stay with me? J-just this once, would you?"

_ God no you fucking idiot,  _ his brain screams a split second after,  _ you can't just  _ ask _ someone to— _

"I-I mean if you want to! You don't have to," he adds in a rush.

Cas smiles though, soft and warm, and it's far more than Dean had dared to hope for. 

Then he says, "of course," like it's the easiest decision ever, and Dean's heart actually stutters.

  
  


It's only once they go in that Dean remembers the way he's been taking care of himself. That is, he  _ hasn't. _

The bed is unmade, and flanked on both sides by two small armies of empty bottles. The desk had become little more than a surface on which to toss whatever random item Dean was tired of holding. There are clothes on the floor of the closet, and they'd begun to spill out into the space in front of it too. 

A bit frantically, Dean starts to fix the room up, mumbling apologies. He yanks the blankets to a neater position, kicks the bottles under his bed, gathers as much crap as he can from the desk and dumps it in the already full trash bin. Because yes, that was all pretty much trash. He simply hadn't cared that he'd been living like this. 

As he scrambles around the room, Dean recalls all the times he'd lain on his bed, headphones in, barely hearing, let alone enjoying the music, and he'd looked over at the scattered garbage on the desk. He'd really tried to care, because he was vaguely aware that he probably should. He'd scoured his mind for any shred of will to care, and there was so much  _ nothing  _ that he'd often zone out and forget what he was doing. And then the garbage would go undisturbed for yet another day.

Dean is so distracted that he jumps when Cas gently touches his shoulder. 

"Dean," Cas says, "slow down. Worry about this tomorrow. You've had a long enough day, don't you think?"

Dean turns to Cas, and there's no judgement in those pretty eyes, just understanding. Or patience. Or empathy. Or... _ something.  _ Something that eases Dean's anxiety away and lets him take a breath. 

"Yeah," he replies with a small laugh, "yeah, of course, you're right, I—I'm sorry for the mess, it's um…it's just—"

"You don't have to explain." 

_ Oh. _

_ Well okay. _

_ Dunno why he's so fucking sweet but okay. _

Dean can't come up with a response, so he just kicks off his boots, shrugs out of his jacket, and falls full-body onto the bed. He drags one hand through his hair and shuts his eyes for a moment. And when he opens them again, Castiel is still real, perched at the foot of the bed. His guardian angel,  _ alive _ .

\---

It feels like a few minutes, but it's probably more like an hour or two later when Dean comes out of his unexpected slumber. He's gotten used to dreading waking up, and he braces himself as his suspended memories fall back down on him.

_ Cas is dead— _

Dean's chest seizes for a heartbeat before his brain catches up.

_ No. Cas is alive. He's right here. _

Cas hasn't moved from his spot, and he's looking over at Dean now, his expression so caring that Dean instantly becomes a helpless rabbit in the headlights. It takes a second for him to unfreeze, and then he does the best thing he can think of right now—he switches the bedside lamp off. Dean can tolerate going back to sleep in his clothes. He's already asked Cas to stay in his room—which is weird enough—so there's no reason to make the poor guy watch him strip too.

Dean sighs, staring at Castiel's silhouette. It's always been easier to stare in the dark. Those few feet between them look like miles and miles. Cas is so near but so very far all at once. Dean wants him. To touch him, hold him, curl up under the blanket with him and sleep until noon. 

So goddamn bad, Dean just wants him closer. But this is what he's getting, and it's gotta be much more than he deserves anyway, so he has to be okay with this. It hurts, but it's a good hurt, a familiar feeling that he can coexist with. At least, he  _ has _ coexisted with it. 

Everything's a little different now, though.

No. No, it's a  _ lot _ different. 

It's too much for Dean to think about tonight. So he closes his eyes again and settles into the comforting void.

"Thanks, Cas. For staying," Dean whispers, trying and failing to school the tremor of emotion in his voice. 

He hears the slight noise of Cas' coat shifting a little. 

"Of course, Dean. Anytime you need me," Cas says, and his tone is just a bit incredulous, as if it's common knowledge that him being here makes more sense than anything in the world. He sounds like Dean just informed him that the sky is blue.

_ How about always?  _ Dean wants to ask.  _ Because I always need you, you actual fucking saint. _

Maybe one day, Dean will have the guts to say that. 

One day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the nice chapters are a little slower going. I'm not as baller at writing happy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas leaves to go after Jack. Dean is a clueless disaster bi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> v smol chapter. just laying the groundwork for the next shipment of Pain™.

"You're meeting a _what_ now?" Dean springs up from the table, knocking his chair over, and Sam sticks an arm out to catch it. "Because I _thought_ I heard you say _angel._ "

Castiel pauses in the doorway. 

"I did say I'm meeting an angel. I have to exhaust every possibility, Dean. I have to find Jack." 

Sam fidgets uncomfortably, watching the two of them as tension rises rapidly in the room. Dean crosses his arms and stares at Cas. Truth be told he's scared out of his wits to see Cas putting himself in danger _again,_ but stubborn is a better look.

"Seriously? You know there's like, _a few_ angels who still hate your guts, right?" He says. "You _know_ this has all the ingredients for an ambush, right?"

"Yes," Cas replies patiently. "But I have to take that chance. Finding Jack, and bringing him home, is far more important than me."

Dean shakes his head. This son of a bitch.

_'Far more important than me'— doesn't he understand that_ nothing _gets to be more fucking important than him?!_

"Can I talk to you for a second?" He leads Cas through the doorway and into a corner where Sam can't spectate. Even though Sam already knows the whole scoop. 

Dean leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets, fixing a belligerent look on Cas.

" _Really?_ " He demands. "So you're gonna just waltz off to Heaven with some random ass angel and, what? Find the mean girls table and ask for some gossip? And what's the backup plan if someone wants you dead, huh? Puppy dog eyes?!"

As Dean waits for a response, Castiel stays infuriatingly calm for a few moments. But then frustration burns it all away, and he moves towards Dean until they're barely a couple of feet apart.

"Listen to me, Dean." His voice is low and commanding, and Dean immediately feels his pulse react unbidden. "That extremely powerful, dangerous child is _my_ responsibility," Cas is saying. "I promised I would watch over Jack, and I've lost him. I _need_ to find him. You have to understand that."

At least half of Dean wants to obey. Cas always has been the only person who could successfully boss him around. Besides that, well, Cas is kinda hot when he gets pissed off, and Dean is only human. But in the end his fear still wins out.

"Cas, I _just_ got you back," Dean says, quieter than he had wanted to. "And now you're leaving? Again? Every time I get you back you leave. Look, I'm sorry that I was the asshole you got saddled with all those years ago, but come on! You can't keep doin' this to me. I get that Jack is a priority, believe me, but dammit, anyone outside this bunker can burn if it means you don't die again." Dean's voice has started to waver, and he really hadn't meant to say all of that, so he falls silent and just meets Castiel's eyes, pleading.

An eternity of a moment passes, and then all at once Cas drops his anger, but rather than backing off, he steps closer. Cas tilts his head slightly with a look of realization, but he keeps their eyes locked, and for the life of him Dean can't look away. He's captivated. He never won’t be.

"You're afraid. I can see that," Cas says softly, reaching out to settle one hand very carefully on Dean's shoulder. Dean leans into it, his half-hearted resolve to resist the urge crumbling in less than a second. He can't help it. 

"Yeah. Fine. I am," Dean admits. Fuck it, if he can't confess his feelings he can at least practice with stuff that isn’t so high stakes, right? 

"I'm scared to death, Cas. I…I really thought you were gone for good this time, and…and I was fucked up, okay? I couldn't bounce back, I couldn't even cope…" Dean draws a shaky breath. "I-I can't lose you again. I can't. I'm sorry, I just _can't_. I know it's fucking selfish but—,"

"Dean." Cas stops him. "It's alright. I understand your fear, but you don’t have to worry. I'll be very cautious, and I _will_ come back. I promise you I will."

After a moment Dean finally nods once, staring down at the floor. He doesn’t like it, but this is what he's getting.

"You better," Dean whispers, raising his eyes back up. "You fucking better."

"I will," Cas repeats with conviction. "And Dean," he goes on, and with a gentle touch, he slowly moves the hand on Dean's shoulder down to where the scar used to be. "I have never regretted this." 

Dean's heart skips a few beats, and it's taking every ounce of restraint he has to not grab Castiel's hand and hold onto it until he cancels this terrible plan. 

"A-at least let me come with you," he manages.

"Dean. I can't—,"

"Hey. Get a room, you two, I found us a case." Sam is leaning around the corner with a subtly amused look on his face. Dean shoots him a glare that could fry an egg. 

Cas takes the opportunity to get on his way, snatching the keys to his crappy old truck off their hook and dropping them in his coat pocket. Dean knows the discussion is over. Cas is going alone and that's that. 

"I'll be back," Cas says as he starts up the staircase. Sam retreats back to his spot at the table, waiting for Dean to join him, but Dean is fixed on Castiel, as if he could have some horrible accident on the way to the door. 

Cas rewards him with a pause to look down just before he departs. It's a long look, his expression unreadable, strangely heavy with something Dean can't identify. Then he's gone, the rustling of his trench coat there one moment, and cut off the next as the metal door slams shut.

Dean runs his hands through his hair and sighs, spinning around to face Sam, who just sits there with one eyebrow quirked. Dean drops to his chair unceremoniously and places both elbows on the table. 

"So are you gonna tell him?" Sam asks immediately. Dean groans in frustration. 

"No," he begins, then amends, "I don't know," because he knows deep down that he's not okay with _never_ telling Cas how he feels. He just has no earthly idea when or how to actually do it. "Fuck off, Sam," he grumbles as an afterthought.

"Dude, why not? Just go for it, what have you got to lose?" Sam breezes right over Dean's French like he hadn't heard anything. He is in full pesky little brother mode. Dean isn’t getting out of this.

"What have I got to lose?! Uh, _everything?_ Catching feelings ruins friendships and you know it," Dean snaps back, standing up. "I need a fucking drink for this conversation." He stomps off to the kitchen. 

"Only if the other person doesn't love you back," Sam calls after him, his voice bouncing down the hallway effortlessly. Sometimes Dean really wishes the bunker didn’t have such great acoustics. He can’t even pretend he didn't hear that. 

"He doesn't." 

Even coming from his own mouth, the words are like cold daggers in Dean's ribs.

_He doesn’t love me. He can't. He shouldn't. Loving me on purpose is a rare disease. Rare and terminal._

_And I can't ask for that. I don't deserve it._

"Really, Dean?" Comes the echoing reply. "Ya think so? Because he sure watches you sleep a lot for someone who wants to stay totally hetero buddies."

Dean pauses with the fridge open, feeling his face start to burn despite the frosty air pouring out at him. He reaches in, crams three beers into his hand, and shuts the fridge.

"He still does that by the way," Sam adds, "like, on a regular basis."

Dean puts the bottles down and drops both hands onto the counter, just leaning there for a minute. Guilt rushes in to flood his mind as he realizes it actually gives him comfort, makes him feel safe to know that Cas still watches him sleep.

He takes a deep breath and shouts back, "He's just weird like that, Sammy. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn't _prove_ anything." 

It took some effort to keep his voice steady. This line of speculation scares him, makes him feel ashamed. He has no right to assume he would ever get more from Castiel than he's already been given. He just isn’t worthy of it, least of all from such a powerful, divine, pure creature. An angel who saw humanity begin, who had flown every inch of the sky, who had torn through the legions of Hell, unafraid, unstoppable, just to…

_To save me,_ Dean thinks bitterly. _To save one worthless human. He's given me everything, given up everything for me. How could I have the nerve to want more from him? I already have far more than I ever earned._

"If you say so, man." Sam's voice jars Dean from his self-loathing reverie. "All I'm saying is, you don't see his face when he's watching you."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, then sighs and grabs the beers.

"Wishful thinking's a helluva drug, Sammy," he says gruffly as he strides back to the table, opening one of the beers before he's even sat down. Sam starts to say something, but Dean cuts him off.

"Just hit me with the case, man, this conversation's over." 

"Alright, alright." Sam rolls his eyes and turns the laptop towards Dean. "Looks like a pretty simple vampire problem. Not too far either, like 40 miles out. Multiple vics found with their throats ripped out, blood drained, you know the drill. Authorities are claiming animal attacks."

Dean skims over a news article about two teenagers coming home late from a roller rink, found dead and dumped in a recycling bin behind the building. He grimaces. 

"Yeah, looks like our kinda animal attack. Head out first thing tomorrow?"

"Sure," Sam agrees, cracking open a beer of his own. "And don't worry about Cas, okay? He'll be alright."

"I can't help it, Sam," Dean sighs. "Somethin' about this last time he died, man, I can't shake this—this fucking _fear,_ and I know he's gonna get fed up eventually with me worrying about him all the time, but I don't really know how to stop."

"Dean, you know this is a completely normal, common reaction to watching your best friend get stabbed, right?" Sam replies. "Just give yourself time. Cas understands, trust me."

Dean just nods, not entirely convinced, but grateful for the vote of confidence.

"Think I'm gonna turn in," he says through a yawn, slowly getting up and pushing his chair back in. 

"Night," Sam says, turning the laptop back around.

"Night," Dean calls over his shoulder, already making tracks to his room.

He didn’t end up in his own room, though. Dean finds himself in Castiel's room, despite how cliché he knows it is. The space is sparsely decorated, because Cas only uses it when he stays over, but Dean can see little pieces of Cas here and there, like fireflies winking on a moonless night. 

Two empty beer bottles sit on the nightstand, labels peeled off and a little bit of water inside. Air plants had been placed in the neck of each bottle, one small and spiky, the other cascading gracefully over the edge of its container. Pale rings of water damage have scarred the wood beneath them where Cas has put the bottles in different spots. 

The long, narrow shelf above the bed is mostly bare, except for a few small rocks Cas had found somewhere, and a large, plain white candle that had been burned a few times already.

The room is cast in a warm golden hue, lit by a few more lamps than Dean remembered, a couple of them squeezed in next to the bedside lamp, one on the desk, and one just plugged in on the floor. A tangled pile of Christmas lights are plugged in on the other side of the bed, not arranged in any way, just sprawling. Every shadow is soft and hazy, giving the room a dreamlike quality. 

Dean raises an eyebrow, looking around as he wanders to the bed and perches on the edge. He feels an odd calm being here in Castiel's glowing sanctum, an almost unreal sense of peace. He brushes his fingers absently over the pillow, then yanks his hand back in embarrassment. 

"Well, the results are in, I'm a fucking creep," Dean mutters to himself, shaking his head. Suddenly feeling like this was intrusion, he stands slowly with a sigh. He was going to leave, he really was. But something caught his eye. 

Tucked under the base of the bedside lamp, there's a neat stack of sticky notes and scraps of paper. Dean recognizes his own handwriting on the exposed corners and edges. Curiosity will surely kill him if he doesn’t snoop now. 

Gingerly, he pulls a pale blue sticky note from the pile and examines it.

Cas

went for a quick salt+burn. back by thursday.

stay safe

\- D

A note he'd left for Cas, who knows when. Dean frowns in confusion and reads another one.

Cas

werewolf(s?) up in iowa. we'll be out a couple days. CALL ME if you need anything ok???

\- D

"Why'd he keep all these…?" Dean wonders aloud. The next one reads,

Cas

had to head out early

GET BETTER

\- D+S

Dean remembers that one, when Cas was sick after the attack dog curse. The next, a torn off corner of lined paper, reads,

Hey Cas

on a case but will be home w/in the next 24

BE CAREFUL.

seeya soon

\- D

Dean is about to reach for another, when he realizes he's been disturbing the pile with every note he pulled out. In a rush, he returns them all, hoping it looks at least close to the way he found it, then spins around and hurries back to his own room.

Dean doesn't know exactly what to do with the knowledge that Cas kept every note he left. It was such a sweet, human thing to do, and he can't, or perhaps won't, figure out what to make of it. 

Cas has always had hidden quirks that show up when nobody expects them. 

This has to be one of those. 

_…Right?_

Dean flops down on his bed and stares at the ceiling. "Cas, you better come back in one piece," he sighs.

Dean doesn't sleep much that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheers (✿ʘ‿ʘ)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SNAFU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy here I go hurting Cas again.   
> Thanks for 69 kudos lmao n i c e

Cas did come back. And he  _ was _ in one piece. 

Technically.

It had been a hectic few days. Sam and Dean had their plates pretty full, and with no leads on anything, tensions were high and tempers were short. So predictably, Sam insisted they take a couple of days off. 

In the midst of it all, the only thing that had kept Dean afloat was talking to Cas on the phone every night, knowing he was okay, that Dean's fears about his mission hadn't occurred. It was his sanctuary in a flood that got a little deeper whenever he looked away.

It's on a restlessly rainy evening, as the brothers are drinking in exhausted silence, that the noise of the bunker's door flying open shakes the room with a metallic clang. 

Dean nearly chokes on his beer as he and Sam jump up from the table, immediately ready for anything. They glance at each other as uneven footsteps echo down the metal staircase. 

As far as they know, nobody was supposed to be coming by. Especially not making an entrance like that.

"Who's there?" Sam calls. Following a split second of silent communication, the two of them slowly make for the doorway and move behind the walls on either side of it, bracing themselves for whatever they're about to face.

The footsteps halt, followed by what sounds like a stumble. Then a breath, hoarse and rattling.

Dean freezes. 

He knows that voice, even without words. 

He has heard that voice in pain more times than he ever wanted to. 

Dean practically vaults over the table and races towards the sound, with Sam right on his heels. 

Cas stands close to the top of the stairs, barely keeping himself upright, leaning his whole body on the banister. His head is bowed, his shoulders heaving, and he's soaked with rain.

"Cas?! What the fuck happened?!" Dean cries in a panic as he bolts up the stairs. 

_ Not again, not again, please not again— _

Cas nearly collapses as soon as Dean gets ahold of his shoulders, almost sending both of them tumbling down. He tries to say something, only managing a choking, coughing noise. Dean can see a few shallow cuts on his face, but the red soaking through his torn clothes suggests far more wounds that aren't visible. 

Sam hurries up the stairs, and together they half-carry Cas to the nearest chair and pile him into it. Immediately he keels to one side, only staying in the chair because of its armrests.

"Okay, he looks like crap, I'm gonna get some medical supplies," Sam says, his eyes freaked out but his tone relatively calm. "A lot of medical supplies."

Dean turns Castiel's face towards him with both hands, heart going wild as pure white-hot fear spreads through his veins. 

"Cas?" He whispers, terrified. "Can you hear me, man?" 

Cas is barely lucid, and Dean can tell he's struggling to keep from passing out. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy, and he keeps trying to focus them without much success. 

"Hey, you're gonna be fine, Cas, okay, look at me, we're gonna fix you. You're gonna be fine." Dean isn’t sure which of them he's actually trying to convince. 

_ Why isn’t he healing? What the hell is happening? This cannot be happening again. _

_ Not. Again. _

Dean takes a breath or two to steady himself— for what it's worth, anyway— and screams inwardly over and over,  _ don't panic don't panic don't panic!  _

Dean begins to remove Castiel's drenched clothes as best he can without causing more injuries. He does his absolute damnedest to shut up that salacious, animal voice in the corner of his mind piping up, as it always did, to remind him of the intimacy of this action. Now is not the time.

Dean had just removed Cas' tie and is shakily undoing buttons when he notices the angry track marks all the way down the angel's neck. They're small, disturbingly precise, and judging by the bruising, they're deep. It looks like whoever had done this had decided the first line of puncture wounds was done, and they'd started a new row beside it. Had they been…sticking needles into his throat? Large needles, too, considering the size of the holes. Dean wants to throw up. 

There's blood everywhere, mingled with rain water that washes through it like tear tracks. Cas' white shirt is hardly white anymore, and several more wounds are revealed when Dean finishes the buttons and carefully opens it. Cas' entire torso is a mess of deep lacerations, many of which are still bleeding, and one side of his ribcage is stained with murky purple bruising.

"Shit. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," Dean mutters through his teeth. It looks really bad. It looks like he should've been dead. "God, please," he begs under his breath, "don't you take him again. _Please, please_ _don't._ "

_ I should've told him. I had a chance.  _

_ Maybe if I'd told him he would've stayed— _

Cas suddenly raises his head a little, and one hand lifts up to clutch the end of Dean's sleeve. He's trembling, and the breath he draws in sounds so painful, Dean winces just hearing it. Castiel's eyes are showing a bit more awareness now, and he fixes them on Dean's. 

"I'm…s-sorry," he manages to say, his voice low and ragged. "P…promised you I…I wouldn't die." He begins to cough violently, pitching forward as the effort of moving takes its toll.

A new bolt of fear punches through Dean's lungs, and he grips Cas by the shoulders, holding him as the coughs subside to a horrible wheezing sound.

"You are  _ not _ gonna die, you hear me?" Dean is just barely keeping his voice together, praying he isn’t wrong. " _ Not again. _ I am not gonna let that happen, okay? You're gonna live, you hear me, Cas? I just need you to hang on, okay, just stay with me. Please. I still need you." 

The last few words are hardly a whisper, as Dean finds himself bowing his forehead against Castiel's. 

He wants to withdraw, wants to tell himself this is probably crossing a boundary, but he can't. Not when Cas is leaning into him, not when he felt the angel give the slightest nod in response to his pleas. Cas whispers something into the small space between them, so quiet and faint that Dean couldn't hear it at all. 

Before he can try and clarify that whisper, though, Sam reenters the room with his arms full of supplies, and dumps them unceremoniously on the table. Dean carefully releases Cas, ready to catch him if he falls forward. Cas sways, but remains generally upright. He slumps back, his breathing labored and shuddering. 

Dean manages to tear his eyes away and moves to the table, while Sam takes a look at Castiel's injuries. Sam had brought their most loaded medkit, along with towels, an extra roll of gauze, a change of clothes (which he'd apparently pilfered from Dean's room), a blanket, two bottles of water, and of course, whiskey. Leave it to him to carry all that shit in one trip.

"He's gonna need a lot of stitches," Sam says, a tinge of worry creeping in at the edges of his steady voice. "Why isn't he healing?"

"Fucked if I know," Dean replies with a grimace.

"Looks like he was tortured by someone who was really having a fucking field day. Magic maybe? Angels?" 

Sam nods, frowning. "Could be demons too."

"Yeah well, whoever the  _ fuck _ did this to him," Dean growls, "they better pray to every god left that I never find them."

He sets his jaw, takes a deep breath, locks his emotions up, and snaps the medkit open. Dean is going to make sure Castiel lives through this if it's the last goddamn thing he does.

He is  _ not _ going to lose Castiel again.

  
  


\---

  
  


Over the next few gritty hours, Dean was on autopilot, working efficiently off instinct alone as he patched up Castiel. They had ended up moving him, with some difficulty, to his bed, where he's now slumped against the headboard but far more comfortable, and the bruising around his ribs is thankfully subsiding. Dean is positioned beside Cas, surrounded by medical supplies. 

Dean's hands work deftly with the curved needle and nylon thread, eyes dark and focused. He can only think one single thought. 

_ Fix Cas. Fix Cas. Fix Cas. _

With a rare gentleness to his touch, one by one Dean sews together each cruel wound that had been inflicted on Castiel. The pile of blood-stained towels at the end of the bed grows slowly as Dean works, his fingers continuously slick with blood not long after the last time he'd wiped them down. 

Cas is partially awake throughout, grinding his teeth so he wouldn't flinch and mess up a stitch. Every once in a while, he lets out a quiet, painful sound, and Dean will pause. 

That's when a part of him he never allows to take the wheel reaches out and runs a hand through Cas' hair, and whispers soothing words, and Cas will relax and breathe for a few moments, giving a slight nod when he feels okay to continue. 

A couple of times, Cas loses consciousness, and Dean will scoot up next to him and just sit for a few minutes, flexing his tired hands, watching the angel until he sees those weary blue eyes flutter open again. 

Castiel's eyes were seared with panic for a ghost of a second before he recognized his surroundings, and it worries Dean. The terror he saw in that brief flash was more raw than any Cas has expressed before. Dean resolves to use some Sam tactics to get him to talk about it when he's more mended. 

  
  


By the time Dean has finished patching Cas up, it's well into the late hours, and the bunker has sunken into silence, save for the faint sound of rain still pouring down outside. 

Cas had drifted off while Dean was cleaning everything up, and his breathing is finally evening out a little. Dean is starting to return to the present again after a night that had felt detached and surreal. He emerges from the half bathroom with clean hands and a warm, damp washcloth. 

The chaos of medical items that had littered the blanket is packed away now, only the fresh bandages left out, and the heap of bloodstained towels is gone at last. Dean slowly settles back down on the bed. He considers waking up Cas, but then thinks better of it; he needs all the rest he can get. And honestly, he's fine with Cas being out of commission for this part. He's got enough anxiety as it is. 

Dean takes the damp cloth and begins to gently mop all the remaining blood from Castiel's skin. 

Something feels so holy about cleansing an angel of the stains left behind by torture, almost  _ too _ holy. Dean feels like he barely deserves to be the one who gets to take care of Cas.

A strange sadness settles over him then, watching the pale red rivulets trail down Castiel's chest, diluting and vanishing as he wipes away the last of the blood.

_ He's worth so much more than I can ever give.  _

_ I don’t have any right to look at him the way I do. _

_ I don’t have any right to  _ want _ him the way I do _ .

Cas stirs, jolting Dean from his thoughts. His eyes blink open, and Dean sees that horrible panic again, and then it's gone and they're simply staring at each other. Dean looks away and busies himself getting the bandages ready, knowing he was blushing, and knowing it's obvious as all hell. 

Then he feels Cas tug lazily at his sleeve, and nearly jumps out of his skin. 

"Dean," Cas whispers. 

Dean looks up. "Hey," he replies with a weak smile. Cas holds his sleeve a little tighter. 

"Thank you." 

"Listen, you don’t ever have to thank me for this, okay?" Dean's voice wavers a bit, and he wanted to leave it at that, but something compels him to go on, words he'd wanted to hide just tumbling right on out. 

"I'm always gonna be here if you need fixing up. If you need  _ anything.  _ As…as long as you'll have me, Cas…I'll be here." 

Yup, he really did just say that. He's really losing it. 

But it'll be  _ fine. _ Cas is still a little out of it, chances are his memory of this will be hazy at best. 

_ Right? _

Dean braves a glance up, meets Castiel's eyes, and they capture him like they always do. On fire with the golden reflections of all the room's lights, they look like a river at sunset. Somehow serene and restless all at once. 

_ God he's fucking beautiful _ , comes the intrusive little voice in Dean's mind, and he barely manages to stop himself from saying it out loud. Cas is quiet, seemingly oblivious to how lost in him Dean is becoming with every passing moment. He hasn't let go of Dean's sleeve, which makes it that much worse or…maybe better?

Dean just knows he has to back out of whatever this is before he does something he'll regret. So he breaks the spell, looking away and quickly switching his attention to the bandages. He has a task to finish, after all. 

"So, uh, question." Dean does his best to sound normal, because he is feeling anything but. "Why didn't you heal, Cas?"

Dean starts taping bandages over the worst wounds. He feels Castiel's whole body shudder at the question. It instantly makes alarms go off in his head.

"It's…it's my grace." Cas sounds so small and spooked, and it fucking hurts to hear. "It was severely depleted. I don't have enough to heal properly yet. I used what little remained to keep myself alive, Dean…I had broken ribs, a punctured lung… I should've died of my injuries or at the very least collapsed before I made it here." 

Dean can feel his blood slowly freezing over at the thought alone, then boiling moments later when the anger kicks in.

"Cas, what—who fucking did this to you?" He demands, murder already at the front of his mind. 

Cas looks pale. "Asmodeus," he whispers hoarsely. "He's a shapeshifter. When you spoke on the phone with me…that was him. With my voice. All of these wounds…Dean, he tortured me with no motive, he didn’t even want anything. Once he believed that I don’t know where Jack is, it was just… _ entertainment. _ "

So all those times he'd called Cas— _ fake.  _ While the real Cas had been suffering, probably right in the next fucking room—?!

"Oh that son of a _bitch,_ I will fucking _kill_ _him,_ " Dean snarls through his teeth. His hands shake as he secures the last few bandages. He needs to stab the bastard _right now,_ and he has nowhere to put that rage. 

"He _used_ me," Castiel says quietly, shuddering again and slowly lifting one hand to touch the marks on his neck. "He drew out my grace and—and he _injected_ it into _himself._ He forced me to watch, Dean, each and every time, and he took pleasure in it. I felt…I _still_ _feel_ so…so _unclean._ It was like—like Metatron. All over again."

Dean hadn't thought he could possibly hate Asmodeus more, but he was wrong. His fingers twitch, itching to grasp a weapon, to drive it through skin and flesh and bone, to hear that bastard scream for his life. The rage he feels is overwhelming, burning through his chest until it thunders fiercely against his ribs, blurring the edges of his vision, flooding every corner of his brain with bloodlust. If Dean is honest, it feels like the Mark of Cain. The way it had possessed his body and mind with that insatiable need to destroy, to feed its brutal hunger.

_ No.  _ Dean shudders at the thought of it.

This is not the Mark. 

So he dials it all back, because he has to, he's  _ able  _ to, because anger is no good here. Violence can't remedy this. Revenge isn’t what Cas needs right now.

Dean tentatively opens his arms instead, offering a hug but leaving Cas a chance to decline it.

Cas goes still for a moment, then falls into Dean's arms and clings to him, burying his face in Dean's chest. 

Dean just holds him, gently tracing his thumbs up and down where they rest at the top of Castiel's spine. The angel has suffered his fair share of deaths over the years, but this recent one seems to have hit him harder than the others, just like it had done to Dean. And now he's been tortured on top of it all. Dean only hopes that what little he can do to help is enough, because he's rarely ever seen Cas quite this shaken up. The poor guy can never seem to catch a break.

Dean would have sat there holding Cas all night in a heartbeat, but eventually Cas calms down and slowly pulls away. 

"You should get some sleep," Dean tells him, pushing himself off the bed with a stretch. "Want me to turn all these lights out? Or are you a moth now?" 

He regretted the joke the second it left his mouth, because there's that panic from before on Castiel's face.

"No, don’t, leave them on," Cas says a little frantically, "please."

"Cas, are you okay man? Talk to me." Dean sits back down and studies him. He seems embarrassed.

"No…yes. I don’t know." Cas avoids his gaze. "I…seem to have developed an aversion to the dark. Since I returned." 

Dean finally connects the dots and feels even worse. "The Empty." 

Cas nods, still looking self-conscious. "It was so, so dark there. I was alone, and nothing existed,  _ nothing _ at all. And…I—," he stops short and composes himself— "it's an irrational fear. It will pass."

"Dude, no," Dean says immediately. "That’s not irrational. You were trapped, in the middle of literally nowhere. You're entitled to all the  _ aversion _ you want."

Cas gives him one of those hard to spot smiles, that was only the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little. As far as Dean is concerned, it lights up the room just the same. 

"Tell you what," Dean adds before he can reconsider, "I'll uh, I'll take you for a drive one of these nights, find somewhere with a whole lotta stars. Make some new memories. Yeah?" 

Cas actually does smile this time. It's soft and brief, but Dean still wants to kiss it right off of him.

"I'd like that," Cas says quietly. Dean bites his tongue and stands up before he can say something stupid like 'it’s a date.' 

"If you need anything, I'm right next door, okay? Just holler." 

Cas nods. "Good night, Dean."

"Night, Cas," Dean says, and every part of him is tugging at him to stay put, but he reluctantly walks out anyway, and closes the door softly behind him. 

As soon as it clicked shut, it was like a switch had been flipped that put Dean's brain back online. Instantly he starts to regret so much of what he'd said and done in that room. All the ways those things could backfire. All the boundaries he surely must have crossed. Dean drags both hands down his face.

"God, what the  _ fuck _ was I  _ thinking _ ?" He mutters to the empty hallway, fleeing to his own room and shutting the door. 

Dean flops onto his bed and sighs. This is the longest night he's ever had. He closes his eyes for a moment, intending to agonize over his actions some more, but he's so exhausted, sleep takes him without any warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's only gonna get gayer from here.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up. Dean is dense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't want to shake Dean by the end of this chapter, then my job here is not done.

For the entirety of the next day, and the day after that, Cas slept, recharging, and Dean religiously checked up on him, barely interacting with anyone else. He was a tangle of nerves, afraid that something would go wrong, that every breath Cas took could be the last. If he loses Cas again, Dean honestly doesn't wanna stick around to find out what a mess he would become. On that first night, Dean barely slept an hour.

Eventually on the second day, Dean just pulls up a chair beside Cas' bed, plants himself in it, and grows roots, messing around on his phone until the battery runs out. After that, he just watches Cas sleep, feeling like a goddamn hypocrite for all the times he gave Cas shit for doing the exact same thing.

There's something soothing about watching Cas sleep. He looks peaceful, with the so often worried lines of his features relaxed and calm. Dean's eyes linger on the soft curve of his exposed throat, the slightly parted lips, the way his eyelashes rest on his cheeks. Dean watches Castiel's chest slowly, steadily rise and fall, and he hangs onto every breath. 

Sometimes Cas would take just a second or two longer to draw the next breath, and Dean's heart would jolt, and his mind would flood with fear like a bursting dam, and those seconds would feel like days. And then Cas would breathe again, and at once the panic was over, and Dean would let out a sigh of relief, only to do it all again the very next time.

It gets late, and those scares keep happening, and eventually Dean takes Castiel's hand into his, because he's so damn on edge, he can't help it anymore.

"Just keep breathing, Cas," Dean whispers, knowing he won't be heard. "That's all I need you to do, okay, just keep breathing."

Dean lays his head down on the edge of the bed. Close enough to Cas that he can feel the warmth of his body.

"God I'm so fucked," Dean murmurs into the blankets. "I am so  _ fucking _ gone on you, Cas."

He's met, of course, with silence. Thank goodness. Because if Cas had picked that moment to wake up, Dean probably would've ran. Ran far, far away, and maybe even faked his own death for good measure.

Dean stays like that, lightly dozing, for another hour or two.

Not long after midnight came and went, Sam pokes his head in and stage whispers, "Hey. Dean."

Dean slowly raises his head, blinking. "What?"

"Go to bed, man. Cas will be alright."

Dean runs a hand through his hair and stares at Cas for a long moment. Then, finally, too tired to protest, he drags himself up with a slow nod, still glancing back at Cas a few times.

_ He fucking better be alright. _

Dean shuffles to the door, leaving all of the lights on, and heads for his room, mumbling what at least sort of sounds like 'good night' as he passes by Sam.

Dean is swaying, and his vision is a little fuzzy, his eyes longing to be closed again. But he doesn't forget to leave his door open a crack, in case Cas wakes up and needs anything. That, however, is the only action he can manage before he practically collapses onto the mattress, asleep almost instantly as if he'd been hit over the head.

  
  


Dean wakes with a gasp around 3, grasping the sheets and staring wide-eyed into the dark. Cas had called for him. He's sure of it. He throws the blanket off and creeps to the door, listening. 

"Dean…" 

That was Cas alright. He sounds scratchy and terrified, and a second later he starts mumbling "no, no, no," and Dean wastes no more time, racing to Castiel's room. 

The lights are off. 

" _ Fuck, _ " Dean mutters, flipping on every light he can reach as Cas whimpers in his sleep, curled up and trembling.

Dean approaches the bed slowly, all too aware of how jarring it can be when someone wakes you from a nightmare like this. 

Dean has never seen Cas have a nightmare, and something about it deeply unsettles him, urges some primal part of him to run, because whatever could scare a mighty creature like Castiel, he wouldn't stand a chance against it. But he quickly smothers the fear, because no way in  _ Hell _ is he gonna leave Cas to suffer through this alone. 

Dean takes a deep breath and then, carefully, reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Cas' shoulder, whispering his name. 

Cas immediately jerks away like he's been burned, waking in a panic with a strangled sound.

"Cas, hey, it's me," Dean says softly, kneeling onto the bed and holding out his hands. "It's okay, you're okay. You were dreaming."

Cas blinks several times, and his eyes start to focus as he looks around, recognizing where he is. The tension leaves him, and he flops back down, shutting his eyes with a shaky sigh of relief.

"It...it was dark…," Cas mumbles hoarsely with a shudder.

Dean reaches for him again, and this time Cas lets him. 

He was going for the shoulder. He really, sincerely was.

But something gets lost in translation between Dean's brain and his body, and he takes Castiel's cold hand instead, squeezing a bit. 

_ Fuck. No! Let go let go let go— _ Dean's heart leaps to his mouth when he realizes what the fuck he's doing, but Cas doesn't object.

"Cas, shit, I–I'm so sorry, the lights, Sam must've—"

"It's alright," Cas interrupts. "He doesn't know. It's not your fault, Dean. It's nobody's fault." 

Dean is silent for a minute. Then, finally, he meets Castiel's eyes and asks quietly, "Are you gonna be okay?"

Cas nods. 

And then his hand moves. 

Slowly, Cas turns his hand over so that their palms fit together, and as Dean holds his breath, not daring to look down, Cas laces his fingers through Dean's. 

Time stands still. 

_ What is this?  _ Dean wonders, shocked and a little blindsided.

_ He is seriously holding my hand right now? _

_ And why does it feel so comfortable and fucking normal? _

Right up until this very second, Dean had always written himself off as the bitch who would let go and bolt out of the room immediately, if he was ever lucky enough to be in this position. But he doesn't want to. The fear he was waiting for just doesn't arrive.

Dean would have stayed like that, all night if Cas wanted him to. And he  _ really _ hopes Cas wants him to.

But eventually, Cas speaks. "Go back to sleep, Dean," he says softly. "You deserve to rest."

"O-okay," Dean stutters, "I um...if there's anything else, anything I can do or–or anything you need—"

Cas had been gently withdrawing his hand from Dean's, but now he holds it tight again. 

"Dean," he says, firm but still so caring. "You are enough."

The words hit Dean harder than they probably should've. He suddenly feels his throat tighten, the pain that only kindness inflicts on him rising up, constricting, stinging his eyes with a lifetime of tears he's never had the luxury to shed. 

Looking away, Dean pulls his hand back, a little faster than he'd intended to. He swallows hard and starts to retreat, trying to calm himself so his voice won't break if he talks.

"Thank you," Cas whispers, "for everything."

The next few moments are a blur, as Dean struggles to say his good nights without falling apart, then escapes to his room in a rush.

He doesn't want to think. He can't. There are too many questions. He just crawls back underneath his blankets and shuts the world out.

  
  
  


Dean slept deeply until way past when he usually gets up. He might've slept even later too, if he hadn't woke to the sound of knocking.

"Hey. Dean. Get your ass up, sleepyhead, there's breakfast." It's Sam. He pauses for a second, then adds, "Cas is awake. He's doing a lot better."

Dean rolls over to face the door with a groan, blinking the sleep from his eyes and squinting at the digital clock. It reads 10:46 AM. Definitely get your ass up 'o clock.

"I'm awake," Dean answers, but his voice is still rough and sluggish, and Sam doesn’t buy it.

"Yeah,  _ now _ you are," he says with a chuckle. "Nice try, Dean. Come join the living. I'll see you at the  _ pile of bacon _ ?"

"Okay, okay." Dean laughs a little. "I'm getting up."

He'd slept in his clothes last night, too tired to even leave the hay once he hit it. Well, actually, he hasn't changed them since the night Cas showed up. He had more important stuff to worry about. Now that he knows Cas is okay, now that he has the presence of mind to care about other things, the smell of blood and antiseptic still clinging to the clothes turns his stomach. He shudders and strips them all off, tossing everything in the laundry basket. 

Dean gets into a tee shirt and worn jeans, snatches a dark green flannel off the back of his chair, and pulls it on as he heads down the hall, barefoot, to the kitchen. 

Dean slowly inhales the satisfying aroma of bacon and coffee; it doesn’t just smell like two things that are already great, it smells like safety. Like home. Like someone was at least  _ just _ enough at ease to make breakfast.

Sam is rummaging in the fridge when Dean comes in. Cas is at the table, cradling a mug of coffee and looking endearingly human. He's half naked with a blanket around his bare shoulders, wearing sweatpants and socks. 

It's clear his angel mojo is kicking back in with a vengeance; the marks on his neck and some of the more superficial cuts are already gone, and the color has returned to his skin, healthy tan replacing the bruised pallor.

Cas looks kinda like he just stumbled out of bed, his eyes half-lidded and hair all messy, falling onto his face and curling around his ears, and when he greets Dean his voice has that rough, sexy sleep texture to it. Nothing could've prepared Dean for all of that rolled into one, and  _ God _ if it isn't doing things to him.

In his defense, Cas doesn't often lose so much grace that he needs rest, so sleepy mussed up bedroom eyes Cas is a rare appearance. 

Dean had actually stopped in his tracks for a moment, his treacherous brain conjuring up images he  _ cannot _ deal with right now. He mentally snaps his fingers in his own face and manages to keep walking before he starts to look odd. 

"Mornin' sunshine," he says brightly, proud of how normal his voice had come out, seeing as on the inside he's all over the goddamn place. 

But when Dean goes to clap him on the shoulder in passing, the blanket slips just a little, and his fingertips meet the soft skin just above Castiel's collarbone, and he hears the angel draw in a quick, almost inaudible breath. It had to have been about half a second but it felt like they  _ froze, _ the whole world static as their eyes met for that tiny slice of time. 

And then it's over, and Dean is in the kitchen, and he instantly, painfully misses the touch of Castiel's skin, and he knows his face is red, and any composure he'd thought he had is lying in pieces on the floor. 

Cas had felt warm, electric, like Dean could almost  _ feel _ the new grace crackling just beneath the surface, restless and powerful. 

It had been intoxicating.

And goddammit, he has  _ got _ to get a grip.

Dean knows he needs to take all of these emotions and desires and cram them back where they belong, where he's kept them all these years and where they were  _ supposed _ to have stayed. 

But try as he might, Dean can't do it. It's like that stupid toothpaste metaphor. The devastating finality of losing Cas, seemingly for good this time, had cut him so deeply, all the way down to where he'd buried those feelings, and forced him to pull them all out and look at them in a way he never had before. 

And now Dean can't get them back in the fucking tube. They're loose, and they're running wild, and there is toothpaste everywhere, and he'd  _ told Sam, _ God he had fucking said it  _ out loud! _ He had let it go free in the world. 

It's here. Real, tangible, unavoidable.

The secret he'd pretty much made peace with taking to his grave. 

It's so intense now, Dean is entirely powerless to crush it back down like he always has.

And if there was ever a chance that he could've gotten the upper hand, it got eradicated when he nearly lost Cas  _ again. _ He's toast now.

So that leaves Dean here, staring into the open fridge like a dumbass, halfway expecting to hear the Windows shutdown sound come from inside his own head.

Sam drops his elbows on the fridge door and looks pointedly at Dean, one eyebrow quirked.

"So…?" He whispers, just a notch louder than a lip sync. "I've barely seen you at all these past couple of days. How are things  _ going? _ Did you guys, uh,  _ talk? _ "

Dean glares at him and shuts the fridge without actually getting anything out of it. He'd really just been hiding in there anyway.

"Fuck off, Sammy," he mutters, snatching a mug that looks clean enough and filling it to the brim with coffee. 

Sam gives him a skeptical look, then says at a normal volume, "So, uh, Lucifer is back. Again."

Dean freezes, a handful of bacon halfway to his plate, and rolls his eyes so hard he's looking at the ceiling.  _ Of course _ that bastard is back. They can never just be rid of him for one little second."Well if you're not fucking kidding me," he sighs, "all I can say is he better watch his back this time."

Dean thinks he should probably be feeling angrier than this; he's even surprising himself with his inability to summon any of the rage he normally has plenty of. But then he looks over to Cas—  _ alive— _ and he just grins. He can be angry later. 

"Okay but get this," Sam goes on, "if we can get Donatello to translate the demon tablet, we might have a shot at going back for Jack and Mom."

Now  _ that's _ news Dean can actually be happy about. He takes a seat at the table across from Cas while Sam excitedly dives into detail. 

Dean hides a grin behind his mug. He knows none of this will be easy, that there's a lot of danger ahead, and maybe even more fucking death. But right in the moment, he feels so much lighter, seeing that small, precious flame of hope in his brother's eyes. Though he found it painfully difficult to actually say out loud, he'd been watching Sam's seemingly unshakable optimism drain away, and it scared him. So if he's being honest, this feels like finally letting out a breath he's been holding for days.

_ Cas is okay. Sam is okay. We're gonna find Mom. We're all gonna be okay. _

Sam eventually stops for breath and joins them at the table with his laptop, though he can hardly sit still. 

Dean sips his coffee and steals a glance at Cas, then instantly regrets it when he can’t tear his eyes away. 

Cas had shrugged the blanket off partially, exposing his bare shoulders, and he's studying his mug of coffee, still looking sleepy. He lifts one hand and slowly drags it through his messy hair, probably attempting to fix it but only succeeding in making it sexier. Dean bites his lip. He knows he's staring, but dammit, who wouldn't? Castiel is hot without even trying. 

In his periphery, Dean can see Sam discreetly peeking over his laptop at them. That little nerd never quits.

Cas glances up without warning and catches Dean's eye. He tilts his head just slightly in that trademark Cas way, and stares. 

_ Look away you dumb ass! _ Dean hears a voice in the back of his mind yelling at him. But he's already lost in Castiel's gaze and there's no getting out. Besides, the weirdly long staring contest is their thing, isn’t it? Cas is certainly the one son of a bitch on the earth who Dean can keep eye contact with and only feel  _ more _ comfortable the longer he does.

Eventually though, Dean will always turn away, ashamed of how he feels, afraid to be comfortable, guilty for assuming he's good enough for the gift that is Castiel. 

But it's Cas who breaks the spell this time, slowly bringing his attention back to his coffee and taking a small sip, the kind that you take when you're testing if it's cooled enough to drink. Dean suspects he's already recovered enough to have no use for coffee, but had accepted it only so Sam could feel like he was helping. Because Cas is a sweetheart like that.

After a moment, Dean also resumes his breakfast, with considerably more enthusiasm, but he keeps on stealing glances like his eyes have a mind of their own. But it's fine, he figures. Cas seems oblivious enough.

So when he feels a socked foot settle gently on top of his toes under the table, Dean could've sworn up and down his lungs actually didn’t exist for a second or two. 

He's just frozen, his coffee a few inches off the table. His heart is going a mile a minute. 

Surely this isn’t on purpose. Cas can't possibly know what he's doing. He can  _ not _ be playing footsie. 

No, it  _ has _ to be something else. He just isn't paying attention, right? 

_ Right? _

Dean chances a look. 

The son of a bitch is just sipping coffee like nothing is different. He shows no indication that he realizes what he's doing. He isn’t even looking at Dean.

So Cas is not playing footsie. He was probably just tired and not really conscious of it. Happens to the best of us, right?

Dean lets out a small breath of both relief and disappointment. His chest aches dully, mourning a reality that had never existed, a world where this was on purpose. Where he and Cas really were sharing a cheesy little moment of secret intimacy. 

However, on the off chance that Cas actually just has a really good poker face, the first solution Dean came up with was to avoid him at all costs. Especially after last night. 

It isn’t logical, but his brain is running on insecurity, not logic. And the very notion that Castiel  _ could _ be flirting? That spins it all into overdrive. Dean has never made a game plan for if Cas loves him back; he barely has one for telling him at all. 

With that in mind, Dean makes himself busy around the bunker all day, accidentally-on-purpose cleaning and organizing whatever room Cas isn’t in, and playing music loud enough that he can't think too much. 

"What if he actually likes me back?" Dean says aloud, as he agitatedly mops the same spot he’s been mopping for the past 15 minutes. 

_ Likes.  _ Because the other L word feels too fragile to just drop on the bathroom floor. Because saying it has always made Dean’s heart stutter for a second. He turns to face himself in the mirror, leaning against the mop handle.

"Why are you so damn  _ scared? _ " he helplessly asks his reflection. The answer is there, in him, hidden somewhere. He knows it, he just has to dig it out. If only it was that easy. "God, I’m a fucking 14 year old girl," he grumbles, and dumps the mop back in its bucket. 

Dean wanders the bunker aimlessly, surveying the spotless results of his anxious cleaning. There’s not a lot left for him to distract himself with. 

Sam took the car to drive out and get Donatello, so Dean can’t even hide in the garage or go for a drive. That dusty old Ford Cas stole a lifetime ago keeps calling out to him though. It needs so much work, and who else is going to do it? Cas doesn't deserve to be riding around in a car that makes it look like nobody cares about him.

Half the reason Dean didn't leave the truck behind had been his vague need at the time to have a pet project. Something that might've made him feel real again. The other half, of course, was that Cas had gotten attached to the crappy thing like it was a rebound from the Continental, and what kind of friend-who-secretly-loves-him would Dean be if he didn’t restore it after Cas had died? 

Then, there was the whole having a breakdown while he drove the truck back thing. But, well, we don't talk about that.

Dean wonders, now that Cas is back, if he would mind the truck getting a much needed makeover. But to find that out, he'd have to speak to the guy, and that is  _ not _ happening today, so instead Dean just grabs a beer and wanders to the garage anyway with no real intentions at all. 

Dean is two steps from the garage when he hears movement. 

Cas is in there. 

Because of course he is.  _ Shit.  _

Dean's anxiety flies off the charts. This is exactly what he was trying to hide from. But he's too close by now. Cas has probably already heard him and if he turned back and fled like he's dying to do, he'd raise all kinds of suspicion, or worse, make Cas feel hurt.

There is no getting out of this. He's gonna have to go in there and play it cool. So he draws a few puffs of breath as if he's about to leap off a cliff, takes a huge gulp of beer, and goes in. 

Of all the things Dean expected to see walking into that garage, Castiel's ass in blue jeans was  _ not _ on that list. But there he is, half his body in the truck, rummaging around under the seats. Dean actually chokes, completing his grand entrance with a fit of coughing. 

By the time Dean can breathe again, Cas is standing an awful lot closer, with a hand on his shoulder. 

"Dean, um, are you alright?" Cas asks, sounding a little concerned.

"Peachy," Dean says wryly, though he thinks he may have just nearly died. 

Cas raises one eyebrow but goes back to the Ford. The doors are open and he has a small bin that he was tossing trash into. Apparently its previous owner had no goddamn respect for his vehicle, and it's already looking worlds better. With less garbage,  _ and _ with a sexy angel in it. Though Dean is pretty certain this guy could make a literal heap of garbage look good.

Cas is still shirtless, and mostly mended, only a couple of bandages left on his chest and ribs. He looks vibrant, the brilliant lights overhead framing his still wild hair like a halo and casting rich, deep shadows under his cheekbones. 

And Dean is staring. Again. He isn’t made of stone. He has never seen Cas in nothing but jeans, and  _ damn _ , he's a fucking sight. Nevertheless, Dean tears his eyes away, perches on an upturned crate, and braves another sip of his beer. He knows he should probably make conversation, but his brain is forgetting what language he speaks at the moment.

Cas emerges from the truck again, with a handful of plastic wrappers and straw sleeves and other trash. He drops all of it in the bin and dusts his hands off. 

"I suppose the boy that owns this truck was content surrounded by waste," Cas remarks, frowning at all the trash he's collected. 

" _ Owned, _ " Dean corrects him, finally finding his voice. "He  _ owned _ this truck. It's yours now. Finders, keepers."

"I did acquire this truck illegally, Dean," Cas says with a laugh. 

"Fine,  _ illegal acquirers, _ keepers, if we're gonna go into semantics." Dean studies the old Ford, brushing his hand absently over the beard he's been neglecting. "Besides, the dude wasn’t treating her right anyway." 

_ Or maybe he lost his Castiel, _ Dean's conscience pipes up,  _ and he stopped caring about everything.  _

"Hey, uh, speaking of," Dean adds after a moment, ignoring the way that thought made his heart twist, "was gonna ask if you'd let me fix her up a bit. Like a lot, actually." He grins. "If you don't mind her seeing another man that is."

Cas gives him a 'really?' look and leans against the truck. "Dean, I'm not going to anthropomorphize my car like you’ve done with yours," he begins, then pauses, as if reconsidering. "Anyway we're not together. I still have yet to buy her dinner," he finishes, deadpan.

Dean cackles, chiding himself for avoiding Cas all day when this is what he'd been missing. He could really get used to this. Cas in regular clothes, doing regular things, the sadness and worry he always seems to carry finally on the back burner for a little while. Cas  _ laughing. _

Dean suddenly feels a dull, familiar ache cut through his pleasant mood. It's the dread for the day Castiel will go on his way, like he always does eventually. The time Dean gets to spend with him is always painfully temporary. 

Sooner or later, Cas is gonna find some worthy cause which will tug him away again, because he always has to be helping someone. Of course, most times that someone is him and Sam, and Dean has plenty of guilt about that to go around.

"So when are you leaving?" Dean hears himself say. His voice came out bitter and resentful, and  _ shit _ that was not supposed to have been out loud. His throat constricted the second the question left his mouth, and for a second he just stares, shocked, down at his own feet.

A sharp, heavy silence descends into the space between them. Suddenly it feels very hard to breathe.

When Dean looks up, Cas is just standing still, staring with so much hurt in his eyes that all Dean wants to do is hug him. He hadn't meant to say it, and definitely not in that tone. It was a thought, unchecked, that should've remained in his mind. It was the product of so many times he's watched Cas leave, and almost hated the angel for it, for walking out, for abandoning him. 

Cas speaks before Dean can get his wits about him. "I…I am nearly fully recovered," he says quietly, schooling the pain in his voice. "I can leave tonight, Dean…if that's what you want me to do." 

_ Shit.  _

Something inside Dean panics completely, as if Cas could still fly and might disappear at any moment.

"No! Geez, Cas,  _ no, _ that's not what I want at all," he says in a rush, shaking his head to clear the very notion from his brain. "Why would you even—that’s  _ not _ what I meant."

Cas still looks upset. He says nothing. 

Dean gets up and walks closer to him, heart suddenly racing.

"Cas, really, that’s not what I meant. I swear." He reaches out with one hand, then immediately loses his nerve and lets it drop back down.

Cas frowns. "What then?" 

Dean looks down, nervous, his eyes darting everywhere except Cas. "I—I um, it's just I always know you're gonna…," he starts shakily. Then more words that were supposed to stay thoughts come tumbling out.  _ So _ many more. 

"Cas, you always leave," Dean says a little too loudly, way too desperately. Inside he's yelling at himself, shut up,  _ shut up! _ — but he keeps talking anyway. "I…I don't want you to go. I've  _ never _ wanted you to go. I wish you would just stay for once. But you always leave and—and I  _ hate _ it. You act like you're not welcome here. Just fucking stay, man, you have a room. Just,  _ stay _ this time.  _ Please. _ "

Cas goes very quiet. 

The silence stretches out, an endless plain of uncertainty. Dean's face is burning, and he finally meets Castiel's eyes as his fingers flex anxiously at his sides. He said way too much. He just knows it.

But Cas' features have softened, and he's gazing at Dean now, with a strange sort of tenderness that makes Dean squirm. 

"How long?" Cas whispers. 

Dean is speechless for a moment, struck by Cas' cluelessness. For a handful of seconds he just opens and closes his mouth, trying to find a way to get his point across without sounding like a fucking Disney princess.

"I dunno, forever?!" Dean finally blurts out, failing miserably at the whole not Disney goal. "I don’t care, as long as it's a long ass time. I mean, if you want to. That is." Dean is pretty sure all the blood in his body is currently in his face.

Cas blinks a few times, processing. "You…want me to...live here?" He asks, still sounding uncertain.

Dean is getting flustered. He feels like he's making a fool of himself every time he speaks. " _ Yeah,  _ Cas," he says. "Isn't it obvious? What else would I be trying to say?"

"Then I'll stay," Cas replies without a moment of deliberation, as if Dean hadn't just asked him to move in. "Of course I'll stay. I would be happy to." His voice is warm, soft. It's like music to hear. And maybe Dean is imagining things, but just before Cas glances away, Dean could've sworn his eyes looked misty. It's a little heartbreaking.

"Everybody should have a home," Dean says, and it sounds way more sentimental than it did in his head. "Yours should be here." 

Cas smiles softly, a bit more composed when he turns back to Dean. "I wouldn’t want it any other way," he says.

Dean thinks he might be the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, to have that smile directed at him. To have a guy this amazing actually  _ want  _ to live with him.

"Well, shit, if I knew it was gonna be this easy I would've asked a long time ago," Dean remarks incredulously, sitting back down on his crate. 

Cas actually scoffs at that. "You would not have. You never ask for what you want, Dean."

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" Dean asks mildly, chugging the rest of his beer and setting it on the floor. 

Cas gives him an odd, almost amused look, and says, "I believe only you know the answer to that question." Then he simply turns and resumes cleaning out his truck. 

Dean just watches him, frankly enjoying the view. He doesn’t have a comeback because he knows he can't deny the call out. In this moment, if he was being honest, what he wants is for Castiel, Angel of the Lord, to push him up against the wall and properly fuck him. And there is no way in hell he's gonna ask for that. 

So, Dean has to be content with companionable silence. Wouldn’t be the first time; it seems there are always several layers of silence between them, not an angry or awkward silence, but one that begs to be broken by... _ something.  _

Anyway, it's not so bad. Cas is alive. Cas is moving in. Cas is wearing  _ jeans. _

Dean feels almost frighteningly peaceful just being near him.

As the evening ticks past, Dean stays in the garage, because he found that despite all his insecurities and undisclosed confessions, he really doesn't want to be anywhere else. 

Dean puts some music on after a while. They give the old Ford a good scrubbing, change her tires, vacuum the interior. Cas never does put a shirt or shoes on, which is truly a gift.

Once or twice, Dean will hear Cas sing along, absently and quietly, to the occasional lyrics, and he can barely admit even to himself how warm and fuzzy that makes him feel inside.

Castiel is going to live here. 

Every night could be like this. 

Dean is on cloud nine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the finish line! I'm still working on the ending so bear with me, it might take a bit. Who should confess first?? Cast ur votes now. Don't catch corona.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean go on an date. Gay af

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lawd a chonky chapter

Nearly a week went by. 

Donatello has fuck all to show for it, and it sure doesn't help that the guy is  _ kind of _ annoying. 

It's late, and Sam has had way too much coffee, making him way too animated as a result. Donatello is being his kind of— okay,  _ really _ annoying self. And Dean is dead tired, but too high strung to sleep, which is almost as terrible a combination as the time he'd had the bright idea of mixing Jack Daniel's with Sunny D. Everything's on his nerves right now. Fucking everything.

They're up past any reasonable bedtime, putting in extra hours for whatever the  _ fuck _ they're currently researching. And they're holding out hope that the prophet will get a breakthrough with the demon tablet before the night is over. So far all they have is a room that will probably smell like condiments for the next ten years. And a nice persistent headache.

"Donny I swear to God if I have to listen to you mangle one more chicken wing in this lifetime I will fucking shoot myself," Dean says, and he almost means it.

"What!? I need fuel so I can do my best work, Dean," Donatello replies with that grating voice of his. "You do want this thing translated, right?"

Dean just groans and drops his head down on the table. 

"Come on Dean, cut him some slack, man," Sam says. "He's kinda doing us a huge favor."

Dean sits up and crosses his arms. "Um, not just  _ us _ , the fucking  _ world. _ This is his responsibility. And it doesn't need to include  _ constant chewing _ and garbage all over the fucking house!"

"Hey!" Donatello snaps back. "That is not fair. There's only garbage on this one table." He jabs one finger in Dean's direction for emphasis. Dean wants to break it.

" _ Whatever. _ " Dean thumps his head back down. "I'm still right."

Sam sits down across from him. "Dude. Chill," he says.

"Make me," Dean grumbles into the table.

"Hey Cas!" Sam shouts, a bit of amusement in his voice. "Get over here and make Dean chill."

Dean snaps up again to see Sam grinning smugly at him. 

_ This. Little. Bitch. _

__

"That's not gonna work Sammy," he growls. 

__

"Wanna bet?" Sam replies, smug grin unfaltering. Dean scoffs and says nothing.

__

"What exactly constitutes your request, Sam?" Cas asks curiously as he walks in. Dean isn't sure he'll ever stop being pleasantly surprised to see Cas in a tee shirt and jeans, but he doesn't show it. Sam is not gonna win this.

__

"I dunno, use your profound bond or something," Sam says, completely amused now. Dean folds his arms again and glares daggers at him.

__

"Um, alright?" Cas seems to be questioning if this whole thing is a joke or not. "Well, Dean, I'm not sure what is actually going on here...but you look like you could use a rest." As he speaks, Cas lays his hands on Dean's shoulders, almost absently. "Perhaps you should get some sleep," he says very gently, pressing in just a little, just with his thumbs, at the back of Dean's neck where nobody else at the table can see it. __

__

_God, yes._ _Fuck._ Dean shuts his eyes in what he pretends to be exasperation. Some flippant remark he had in mind dies on his lips, and he barely manages to hold back from replacing it with a sigh of pleasure.

__

He can already feel that fucking voice melting away a day's worth of stress, those strong hands draining the tension from his body, but he stubbornly refuses to allow it. Dean is committed to this. It isn’t even about his mood anymore. It's just about not losing, because Sam isn’t playing fair.

__

Dean twists out of Cas' grip and stares up at him belligerently. "That all you got?"

__

Cas shrugs, still clearly puzzled. "Sorry Sam. That was indeed all I got."

__

Dean is the smug one now, though silently he wishes he could've sat there for the entirety of that shoulder massage. He looks pointedly at his brother, waiting for him to admit defeat. Sam pulls a bitch face.

__

"Guess he's intent on being a dick," Sam says in a predictably pissy tone. "Thanks for trying."

__

Cas gives him a small, apologetic smile, then pats Dean's shoulder and wanders out. Dean was literally about to keep his antagonistic streak going, when he hears Cas pause just past the doorway.

__

"Actually, Dean," Cas says with just a hint of trepidation, "I'd… like to take you up on that drive. If you're up for it."

__

Sam leans both elbows on the table and raises his eyebrows obnoxiously high. Dean freezes for a good second before turning to Cas. His anxiety shoots back up, but for different reasons. He'd nearly forgotten, or tried hard to forget, a lot of what he'd said and done that night while patching up Cas. 

__

_ That's right. I basically fucking asked him out. And he remembers it.  _

__

_ He probably remembers everything _ .

__

_ Everything. _

__

Dean is in the middle of a power struggle in his mind, between the absolute certainty that he does not want to say no, and the nearly paralyzing fear of saying yes. He stares dumbly at Castiel until he sees the angel start to speak, start to assume his silence is refusal, and he sees his chance letting one hand slip from the ledge.

__

"Yeah, you know what, that sounds fucking great, let's do that, I could use to get outta here," Dean blurts hastily, standing up probably way too quickly.

__

Cas smiles that amazing smile of his. "Good," he says, making a beeline for the garage.

__

Dean looks back at Sam, not sure what he's even looking for. Sam grins, wildly shooing Dean out with his hands. 

__

" _ Go, _ " he stage whispers, tossing Dean the Impala's keys.

__

Dean huffs a tiny laugh and barely manages to catch them, nerves fluttering inside him. As soon as he gets out of Sam's sight, he stops in the hallway and leans on the wall, stalling. He can hear Castiel's footsteps growing fainter. 

__

This is happening. Dean is freaking the fuck out. His hands are shaking. Twice he almost turned around and ran.

__

_ Breathe, you dummy! _ He thinks loudly at himself. _ Stop being a teenager and go have a late night drive to stargaze with the best friend you're secretly in love with who you kinda wanna have sex with right now who doesn’t love you and if you ever tell him how you feel it could ruin everything and— _

__

"Okay, okay! Geez," Dean says aloud.  _ Enough of that. _

__

Dean takes a breath and silences his frantic thoughts. He is  _ not _ chickening out on this. He has no earthly idea how he's gonna handle this, but he's gonna start with not being a chicken and go from there.

__

Dean stalls a little longer though, grabbing a cooler full of beer from the kitchen, then steels himself and starts walking after Castiel.

__

__

The garage inevitably brings up vivid shirtless Cas flashbacks, and when Dean spots the sexy bastard leaning on the passenger side of his car, it definitely doesn’t help him dispel those images. 

__

_ Upstairs brain!  _ Dean reminds himself sharply. 

__

_ Upstairs. Brain. It's just a drive you pervert.  _

__

_ It's just a drive and he's  _ just _ your friend. _

__

Dean clears his throat, trying to pull some words from his blank mind as he unlocks the Impala and thumps the cooler onto the backseat. It's no use. He settles with a grin instead, and Cas returns it, suddenly seeming so close even though he's been in the front seat plenty of times before.

__

__

As they roll out onto the desolate road, Dean begins to wonder what he's gotten himself into. He can barely keep his eyes facing forward, constantly itching to glance at Cas and his delightfully bare arms. They haven't been alone in the car since before Cas died. And it feels a lot different now, like there's an undertone of something new. Dean knows that undertone is only in his head though. Cas probably feels the same as ever.

__

_ But we held hands a little bit, remember that? _

__

_ Remember? _

__

Dean tries hard to ignore that voice.

__

They've barely gone a half mile when Dean's phone buzzes. Steering with one hand, he wrestles it out of his pocket and taps the lock screen on. Cas glances with slight curiosity but says nothing. 

__

It's a text from Sam. 

__

**GET IT, DEAN!!!** Followed by three winky-face emojis.

__

_ For fuck's sake _ . 

__

Dean blushes hard and shoves the phone back in his pocket. Hastily, he puts some music on to distract himself from, well,  _ everything, _ but before he can turn the volume up, Cas speaks.

__

"Dean. Were you alright back there?" His voice is caring and soft, tearing down Dean's walls before he could even put them up. 

__

"No, man, I kinda wasn't," Dean admits, finding himself unable to bullshit. "I'm just, I just feel really overloaded with everything right now, y'know? Like I'm burnt out but I don't  _ wanna _ be burnt out, I got no  _ right _ to be, not when I got people who need help. And I wish I could just sleep it off, I really do, but I'm—it's like I'm too tired to sleep." He laughs a little at himself, an empty, joyless laugh. "Isn't that fucking ridiculous, Cas? Oh, and you  _ totally _ came here to hear me whine, right?"

__

Castiel gazes at him with those sad, piercing blue eyes for a few moments. Then, "Maybe I did. Is that not what you need, Dean? To have someone listen?" If his tone has changed, it's only to one that has even more power over Dean's normal deflections.

__

_ Oh fuck you Cas. Fuck you for reading me like a goddamn book. _

__

"I guess," Dean mumbles. "But there's more important shit to worry about. My fucking problems don’t matter, Cas."

__

"Can't they matter to me?" Cas asks, reaching out and placing his hand on Dean's shoulder, just far enough that his thumb brushes against skin.

__

Dean shamelessly relaxes under the touch, letting the tiniest shiver run through him. It's all he can do not to beg for more. He keeps his eyes on the road.

__

"It's okay to feel stress, Dean," Cas says softly. He pauses for a moment, then adds, "actually let me rephrase that. It's okay to  _ feel.  _ Full stop."

__

That broke Dean's staring contest with the yellow lines, and he turns to look at Cas. He swallows hard, his throat dry. He doesn't know what to say. How does this fucking angel always have the words he can never admit he needs to hear? It's uncanny, that's what it is.

__

Cas keeps his hand on Dean's shoulder for almost another minute before he slowly withdraws it. Dean immediately misses the contact as he feels the warmth dissipating. 

__

_ Put that hand back or so help me,  _ is what he'd say if he had the guts. 

__

"Hah. Weirdo," he chuckles instead, because he doesn’t have the guts. Nobody ever tells you that the fucking butterflies start eating your insides if you let them.

__

"Oh shut up, you love me," Cas growls, and Dean is pretty sure he literally almost had a heart attack before he realizes a second later that Cas was only messing with him.

__

"Yeah, sure," Dean shoots back, saying it in a sarcastic tone but meaning it with every last shred of his soul. Dean prays it wasn’t as obvious as it apparently had been to Sam. He turns up the music to avoid any more dialogue, because his heart is racing and it is getting less and less easy to play it cool.

__

To Dean's relief, they drive on like that, classic rock pleasantly filling the silence. Dean takes them far, out to where the road is dusty and rocky, past where the only buildings in sight were the occasional creepy farmhouse every few miles. 

__

__

Dean takes them out where the wind rushing through the open windows smells pure, sweet like wild grass and damp soil. Out far enough that the road, barely even asphalt anymore, is the only manmade thing as far as the eye can see, and the sky is a deep, deep blue scattered with millions of stars. Out where you can see the Milky Way painted across the dark backdrop.

__

__

Dean steers the car to a slow, rumbling stop in the middle of a wide open field, leaving a trail of flattened tall grass in their wake. He shuts off the engine, plunging them into a silence challenged only by the soft whisper of wind in the grass, and the distant chirping of crickets hiding somewhere in the dark. For a moment, the two of them just sit there. Then Dean opens his door and steps out. 

__

It's a cool night, but not cold, and God, the air is so  _ fresh. _ Dean sometimes gets stir crazy breathing the same old air in the bunker day after day. He tips his head back, eyes closed, and fills his lungs blissfully. 

__

Cas appears next to him, holding out a beer. Dean happily accepts it and strolls around to the front of the Impala, planting his ass on the hood. Cas joins him, and they sit in the quiet darkness for a while, gazing up into the sky, their surroundings lit only by the stars and a brilliant half moon. 

__

It really is beautiful out here. Dean would never say it out loud, except maybe to Cas, but he feels at peace when he has the chance to stargaze. It's like finally turning to a new page in his troubled mind. He always knows that in the morning it will be the same shit on a different day, but those rare nights give him clarity in all the chaos, and with Castiel by his side, it's a different, deeper kind of peace. 

__

Dean could honestly stay here forever. Even if his feelings were never returned, even if he had to love this angel from a distance forever, he would stay.

__

  
  


__

\---

__

  
  


__

By the time they're around an hour in, Dean is on his third beer, while Cas has been knocking them back like a professional in order to actually get any kind of buzz. He's probably on beer number eight if Dean had to guess.

__

They haven't spoken much. This far out in the country, there are so many stars, you can never stare at them long enough, because you get overtaken by this strange desire to commit every star to memory. You can try to chat a bit, but the conversation will always trail off organically as soon as someone looks up again. 

__

__

Dean is pleasantly buzzed by the end of that third beer, and he lies back on the hood with one arm tucked under his head, the dazzling expanse of night sky filling his entire field of vision. He feels the car bounce back up a bit as Cas gets up to raid the cooler again. Moments later Dean hears the crisp sound of a bottle cap being twisted off, a sound that almost echoes in the silence. 

__

Cas returns to his spot, and…well, Dean could swear he's just a  _ bit _ closer this time. Probably not intentional, but Dean isn't complaining. He hears Cas chug half the beer before leaning down to set it on the ground. 

__

Cas sighs quietly after a moment. "Sometimes I miss the sky," he whispers, a little wistfully.

__

"Uh, it's right up there, buddy," Dean says, and regrets it a moment later when his comprehension of what Cas meant catches up to him.

__

"Flying," Cas clarifies. "I miss flying sometimes. Dean, I wish I could show you what the stars look like…even just a mile closer."

__

"Shit," Dean mutters. "I'm sorry, Cas. That's kinda my fault, ain't it? That you can't fly anymore. Like, ultimately it's my fault."

__

Cas is quiet for a moment. Then he laughs softly. "I made my choices, Dean. I've never blamed you for my falling, it was far more my own doing than anyone else's. Besides, it was worth it."

__

" _ What _ was worth it?" Dean asks. "What could be worth that? Getting to live on Earth? It's not  _ that _ great here." 

__

Dean hears Cas shift his weight, probably turning to look at him, but Dean is too comfortable to sit up. 

__

"You," Cas says simply.

__

Dean cackles, actually amused. " _ Me? I'm _ worth it? Grab me like 3 more beers, Cas, I'll get back to you when I'm drunk enough to believe that. I am  _ so  _ not worth it."

__

"But you are," Cas replies without hesitation. 

__

Why is he like this? It's hard to argue with Cas when he's so sure that he's right. And about something this ridiculous, too.

__

"Honestly? I still don’t know why you pulled my sorry ass outta Hell, y'know that? And I've had a lotta years to speculate." Dean isn’t drunk, but he is definitely buzzed enough to be open with his self hatred. He knows Cas is still facing him, but he doesn't want to see that patient, caring look that he will never deserve. So he just keeps on staring at the stars.

__

"Truthfully, I was only following orders back then," Cas says. "But now? I would do it again. Without any question I would do it again."

__

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, trying to stop picturing the very real possibility of Castiel's heroic bullshit being the death of him.  _ Again. _

__

He changes the subject. 

__

"You ever miss bein' upstairs?" Dean asks. "Y'know, bein' a career soldier and all that jazz?"

__

Cas is quiet. 

__

"I mean if you don't mind me asking," Dean adds, hoping he didn't just spook Cas with too loaded a question.

__

"No, no, it's alright, I just"—and Dean can practically _ hear  _ Cas squinting in that way he does—"I suppose it's something I try to not to think about too much," Cas explains. "The way I feel about Heaven… it's a part of me that I find difficult to understand. Funny that it concerns the Divine because it feels... painfully human."

__

There's something in Castiel's voice that makes Dean finally sit up. Once he's at the same level as Cas, it feels like he's an awful lot closer, but Cas doesn't seem to be bothered by it, so Dean stays put for once. 

__

After a moment Cas speaks again, his eyes downcast and hidden. "I think I do miss it," he admits. "I wasn't unhappy back then. But I also know that I was ignorant. Oblivious. I've seen so much since then. I've witnessed Heaven's own corruption, and I don't think I could ever be content if I went back, knowing what I do now. And besides that... I wouldn't be welcome there, not after all that I've done." 

__

Cas' voice gets smaller in the last sentence, homesick for a home he no longer has, and Dean shuts his eyes for a second, because he knows that yearning. He remembers it. It's a tiredness, dry and heavy, one that never goes away no matter how much you sleep, because it's in your mind more than it's in your limbs. It's loneliness in the middle of a crowd. It's the warm glow of light from inside a house, and it's the silhouettes of a family that lives there, moving around and getting ready for dinner. It's being on the outside of that window, and it's wishing, just for  _ a day, _ you could swap lives with one of those shadows. It's knowing that you can't.

__

Dean's heart aches for Cas, and stings with guilt at how long he'd let Cas wander the world with nowhere to belong. He must've been so sad. 

__

"I guess I don't really miss Heaven," Cas goes on, "I miss an idea of it, because I know it's never been what I thought it was. But I was loved once, as much as angels  _ can _ love, anyway. Back when I was being who they wanted me to be, I was loved."

__

_ Until me, _ Dean thinks, with the sour taste of guilt like acid in his mouth.  _ Until you rode along with me and I drove us both into a telephone pole.  _

__

All this time. Dean is finally seeing it. All this time Cas has been lonely. 

__

It's no wonder he never assumed he was welcome in their home. That's a fucking terrifying thing to hope for after already having lost it once. Dean can still recall the early days of settling into the bunker, all the nights he'd lay awake, resisting the urge to get comfortable, just waiting with bated breath for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to find out his new home was too good to be true, just like so many good things are.

__

The bunker. That's a can of worms too. 

__

No, Cas didn't just lose his home once. 

__

He lost it again when Dean had made that excruciating choice to turn him away, disheveled and graceless and alone, with no clue how to be a human. Right after he'd been killed, too. 

__

Dean remembers every minute of that night. He had sunken to the floor the moment Cas had left. He'd sworn up a storm and hurled an empty bottle across the room, then threw everything else on the table after it. He didn't sleep at all, and in the coming nights when he tried to sleep, Dean would break down worrying about Cas, wondering if he was crying too, wherever he was. He'd practically stalked Cas, desperate to know that he was okay, wishing he could just wrap the man up in his arms and bring him home, feed him and give him blankets and make sure he's warm and safe. Cherish him. Show him the love he deserves.

__

__

Dean doesn't sense the tide of emotion rising in him until it's so close to the surface, he can't stop it. He tries to hold it down. He does. But that only seems to make it more powerful. 

__

_ You're loved here, too,  _ he wants to tell Cas.  _ And I'm so sorry I didn't support you when you needed it. You'll always, always be loved here. _

__

But it's so much easier to think those things than to say them.  _ Saying _ something like this, actually taking what you feel and pushing it into the open air, tossing it out of the nest and hoping it will fly— it's petrifying. Vulnerable. Dean wants to be vulnerable with Cas, to bare his soul and be accepted. He wants to pour his heart out and take risks. But vulnerability is more than a risk, it's alien and  _ dangerous. _ Or at least that's all Dean has ever known it to be. 

__

So they sit in silence, side by side, minutes drifting past like the lazy flight of birds at dusk. The moon keeps on creeping across the sky. Somewhere distant, where the field ends and the wild begins, a coyote howls, and another answers.

__

__

Dean isn't sure what undid him first. Maybe it was the wistful way that Cas turned his face up to the stars. Maybe it was the way he slowly closed his eyes. Maybe it was the way he hugged himself, hiding, shielding himself from the world. 

__

__

Or maybe it was just the breath. 

__

__

The tiny, resigned little exhale that Cas let out, probably not even intentionally. It's so soft, so slight that it could easily have been missed. But Dean doesn't miss it.

__

__

Just one little breath, barely substantial enough to extinguish a candle, but it's a  _ gale force. _ In an instant, it storms the guarded, jaded part of Dean's mind that makes all the decisions, and it knocks out every last scrap of power.

__

Everything shuts down, and something else takes over, something fearless and hopeful, and now Dean just watches, stunned, from the sidelines. 

__

Now his heartbeat is like thunder in his ears, now he's turning, reaching, and now Castiel's shoulder is warm beneath his palm, and they're face to face. Cas blinks at him, and Dean can feel him tremble, just for a second, when their eyes meet.

__

__

Dean wasn't planning on lifting his hand further up to cradle Castiel's face.

__

__

It just— _ happens. _

__

__

He barely dares to breathe. The world stands still.

__

__

And then Cas places his own hand just above Dean's knee. Slowly, gently.

__

__

Now their foreheads are touching.

__

__

Now Dean can feel Castiel's hot, rapid breath against his mouth.

__

__

Fuck, how did they get to this in just a few  _ seconds?  _

__

__

They're both frozen, shaking with emotion, and Dean watches the last 8 years flash before his eyes.

__

__

The battles, the deaths, the tears, the laughter. 

__

The mornings in hotel rooms, before Sammy woke up, that Dean, snuggled in fluffy blankets, would glance over at Cas, and they'd share a long look, and Dean would just study the way the soft morning sun played across the angel's skin, and he'd smile. And Cas would smile back. 

__

The seconds after they  _ just  _ made it out of a hunt alive, adrenaline spiked, stained with sweat and blood, that they would both collapse into the car, or maybe on the ground next to it, and Dean would get a head rush just looking at Cas, and he'd come  _ so  _ close to kissing him. So close. 

__

The times of calm in between, when Cas would stay at the bunker for a few days, and Dean would pass his door on the way to bed, and it would be an inch or two open. And Dean would peek in for a moment to whisper good night.

__

The times that Dean smiled watching Cas get so much joy and fascination over something like a caterpillar, or the unusual texture of a hotel blanket, or the way that maple tree seeds twirl when they fall, and Dean would look at those things differently after, and he'd feel his soul get a little warmer.

__

__

Dean closes his eyes, and he sees clarity. 

__

Cas is it for him. Always will be. He will never want anyone else. 

__

Cas is worth the risk, worth the danger of venturing out into the unknown.

__

Dean should be terrified, should be panicking over all the ways this could go wrong when he feels Cas touch his face. 

__

But he doesn't. 

__

He swallows back his doubt and leans in. He feels Castiel’s face tilt into his palm, and the confirmation makes his heart leap higher than it probably ever has.

__

__

Now—

__

__

Now the breath Dean felt is cut off, and so is his own, because Castiel's lips are on his instead, soft and wet and sweet.

__

__

Dean thinks his heart might have stopped too.

__

__

The kiss doesn't mirror the earth-shattering turning point that it represents. It's slow, curious, tender. It's years of aching to know what this would feel like. Years of mapping out each other's every detail, but never being allowed to learn those details with their hands, their lips, their bodies.

__

It only takes a second or two for Dean to lose his balance and fall backwards onto the hood of the car. He barely registers the chill of the metal against his back, because he opens his eyes for a moment and watches as the stars are blocked out by the shape of Castiel, following him down without missing a beat.

__

__

Dean is really doing this. He's finally kissing Castiel.

__

__

God, not one of his daydreams had even come close to this. A bliss that Dean has been waiting so long for starts to wash over him like a river. Soaking, purifying, smoothing every stone beneath it. 

__

__

_Cas loves me back, doesn't he,_ Dean realizes, incredulous and ecstatic. _He actually feels the way that I do. He loves me back. Oh God he loves me—_

__

__

That's when it shows up—something familiar. 

__

__

Fear. 

__

__

Fear he's felt before, that strikes him like cold iron and closes tight around him.

__

__

_ Fear. _

__

__

Dean tenses under Cas and twists his head away, breaking the kiss despite every part of him that begged him not to. 

__

"Cas, no…" Dean whispers hoarsely. "I can't. We can't."

__

"What's wrong?" Cas asks, his tone worried, confused. A little hurt, maybe.

__

Dean covers his face with one arm, shaking his head. He draws in a deep, trembling breath. 

__

"I can't, Cas. I can't. I can't have this." It's already getting difficult to keep his voice steady. "Everyone who loves me goes away. Something's gonna take you away again, Cas. I'm bad. I'm bad luck. I  _ can't _ have you. I never should've…"

__

__

He trails off, and there's nothing but silence for a long moment. 

__

Dean feels a slow, warm breath ghost over him. Then Cas gently takes Dean's wrist and pulls it away from his face. Dean stares into the small glint of blue he can see in the low light. 

__

"Dean," Cas says softly, "you can. Nothing will take me away from you again, not if I have anything to say about it. You are  _ everything _ to me. I've waited  _ so long _ to tell you this. You're everything and you always will be."

__

Dean looks away, watching himself circle the drain but unable to stop this paralyzing fear from tumbling out. Those words are too good for him. He thinks he might be panicking. 

__

"I don’t deserve that," Dean says, despairingly. "I don’t deserve  _ you _ . I've never deserved you."

__

Cas leans in a little closer. "I  _ want _ you," he whispers, and Dean can't even begin to stop the shiver that it causes. 

__

"I just…man, I didn't think it would ever go like this, I'm kinda blindsided here," Dean says weakly. "I can't help this, I'm so scared I'm gonna lose you again. I'm scared to be  _ happy,  _ Cas." He pauses for a second. "I think I have been for a really long time," he adds, even quieter.

__

Still holding Dean's wrist, Cas brings his other hand up to cradle Dean's face, turning it back towards him. "Do you want me?" He murmurs.

__

" _ Yes, _ " Dean replies without a single thought. "God, Cas, yes, of course I do."

__

"Then I'm yours." Cas kisses him on the forehead, then the lips again. "And if we're somehow torn apart, then at least we were happy. We were happy for as long as we could be. We can say that we tried."

__

Dean wants to agree. It sounded so right, the way Cas said it. But he has lived with this crushing sense of unworthiness, trusted this instinct to know everything good would go wrong, for damn near his entire life. It's so hard to rewire his mind, and he hates himself for it. So he simply stares, silently begging Castiel to know that he isn’t refusing, he just feels physically incapable of saying anything opposite of what was so deeply ingrained in him.

__

"Dean, I understand." 

__

Of course he does. Cas has never failed to decode the emotions Dean can't express.

__

"Cas, I'm sorry. I don't wanna be like this, I wish I wasn't, but—"

__

"You have to. You've always had to." Cas brushes his thumb gently up and down Dean's cheekbone, his gaze still unwavering, his touch so tender that Dean can’t help nuzzling into it. "Your life has been so painful, so unpredictable. This wariness, it protects you from being hurt again. It's safer to be alone but in control, than to be loved but vulnerable. I understand."

__

Dean nods with a small sigh that felt a little like a sob. He could never say that stuff, but he knows it's all true. 

__

"Let go. You’ve suffered enough." Cas leans down until he's so close, Dean feels every word on his lips. 

__

__

"Dean," Cas whispers, his voice low and gravelly. "You taught me so much. You taught me humanity. Freedom. Resistance. Now let me teach you surrender."

__

__

Dean's breath catches in his throat, and he trembles a little, biting his lip as heat starts to surge into his veins. "Well, fuck, if you're gonna put it like that," he whispers back.

__

__

Cas slowly, deliberately pins Dean's wrist against the hood of the car and slides his other hand down to Dean's chest, pressing just slightly. "How else would you like me to put it?" He asks quietly.

__

"You mean  _ where _ would I like you to put it." 

__

__

Dean realizes a second too late that he'd said that out loud instead of thinking it. 

__

He fucking  _ said _ that. 

__

But the regret disappears immediately, because Castiel responds, his eyes flashing to something darker, hungrier. Then he shifts so he's properly on top of Dean, positioned right between his knees and deliciously close. 

__

Cas begins to kiss him again, this time fervent and needy, his breath growing rapid. When Cas licks at his lips, Dean opens for him faster than he has for anyone, letting him push his tongue in, letting him earn a few sounds Dean isn't exactly proud of making. By the time Cas gives him a second to breathe, Dean is lost in it, unable to stop the soft whimper that escapes him. Cas barely pauses for a heartbeat before he claims Dean's mouth again with even more vigor, suddenly slipping a hand under Dean's shirt and starting to explore.

__

Dean arches his back involuntarily, clinging to Castiel with his one free hand as he feels fingernails graze his chest. Heat keeps rising in his body, feverish with the growing need encompassing his senses.

__

"Cas," Dean gasps against the angel's lips, because that is all he can think right now.

__

Just,  _ Cas. _ The weight of him. The scent of him. The love that burns in his eyes. The desire. The  _ years  _ that Dean has wanted him like this.

__

Castiel is power. Strength. Beauty. 

__

And Dean wants all of him.

__

"Dean," Castiel growls as he moves his lips a little lower to nuzzle at Dean's jawline. Dean tips his head back dizzily and Cas starts to kiss his exposed throat, gently at first but quickly changing to something fiercer, more passionate. Dean draws a few shuddering breaths, nearly overwhelmed by the sensation, and moments later he's gasping when he feels  _ teeth. _

__

This is definitely gonna leave marks. 

__

But God help him, Dean wants them.

__

And God  _ fucking _ help him, Castiel starts grinding. 

__

"Cas _ —fffuck— _ " Dean bites off a moan, caught by the sudden wave of pleasure. Cas seems very encouraged by the reaction. He practically purrs and rolls his hips again, picking up an agonizingly slow pace until Dean is completely unable to hold back his moans. 

__

If Dean thought he'd been unraveling a minute earlier, this is something else entirely. There may be a few layers of clothing in between them, but this is still Castiel's hard cock grinding against his, and it's nearly enough to push him over the edge right then and there. It is fucking  _ heaven. _

__

Dean starts to lose track of everything in the world, his head spinning. Only this exists. Only the two of them, their breathing heavy in the quiet dark. He barely had the presence of mind to notice when Cas wrestled the shirt off of him, isn’t even sure when they moved from the hood to the side of the car. He does, however, in a short few seconds of clarity, reach behind him to unlatch the door. 

__

They tumble into the back seat of the Impala, tangled up, hands and mouths moving restlessly, bodies rocking together with an almost feral rhythm. They have both waited far too long for this. Nobody is being polite tonight.

__

__

It's right around when the windows have started to fog up that Dean's phone rings.

__

__

He and Cas pause, panting, for the first time since they ended up in the car. 

__

For a moment Dean just stares up at him. It's hard not to. Cas is beautiful. His skin glistens in the silvery light, his hair perfectly messy, lips parted just slightly as he stares back. 

__

_ This is real. This is really happening. _

__

__

The ringtone plays again. 

__

And again.

__

Slowly they tear their gaze from each other and to the floor where Dean's phone had fallen at some point.

__

Dean finally reaches down with a groan and paws around until he finds the phone. 

__

Sam is calling. Dean starts to scramble into a more practical position to be answering the phone in, but Cas pulls him up into his lap instead, both of them sprawled across the back seat.

__

Cas wraps his arms around Dean's waist and kisses the back of his shoulder. "You should probably answer that," he murmurs, and Dean shivers a little at the angel's warm breath brushing his neck. He nods shakily and accepts the call.

__

"Hey, Sam." Dean realizes a bit late that his voice is still quite breathless, and he cringes at himself, face flushing.

__

There's a substantial pause on the other end. Then, "Uh, hey Dean."

__

"Hi."

__

_ Dumb ass! Already said hi. _

__

Dean clears his throat. "Hi," he says for the third time in as many fucking  _ seconds _ , failing miserably at sounding anything like a normal person. "What's, uh…what's up?" 

__

Another pause. "You okay, Dean? Is Cas with you?" The poor guy actually sounds concerned.

__

Dean feels exactly as exposed as he would've if Sam could see him through the phone. "Y-yeah he's um…Cas is with me alright—I mean uh, he's here. Cas is here."

__

_ Nailed it _ .

__

"Ooookay," Sam says, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Is this a  _ bad time _ ? I can call you back later."

__

"No, no, we're um—I'm fine, now is totally fine." Dean is so flustered he even hears Cas laugh softly at his terrible attempts to talk. "So, what's up Sam?"

__

"Donatello says he might have something. I think he's finally making some progress. Sure took long enough, right? Anyway, uh, just wanted to let you know. We figured you guys were probably on your way back by now. It's like almost 3 AM, y'know."

__

"Sure, yeah, of course. We'll head back," Dean says hastily, hoping to fucking God that he can just hang up as soon as possible, because talking to his little brother and being rock hard are two things he'd rather not mix.

__

"Dean, if I was… _ interrupting _ anything, there's no rush."

__

Dean fidgets uncomfortably, staring up at the roof for a moment. He isn’t sure why he feels so embarrassed. He's already told Sam everything. But one stubborn(and very vocal)half of him insists that by doing exactly what Sam hoped he would do, he is allowing his brother to win some kind of petty, imaginary bet. And on top of that, old habits die hard.

__

Cas saves him. He delicately steals the phone and speaks, slowly petting Dean's hair with his free hand. "It's alright, Sam. Thank you for keeping us updated. We'll see you soon." 

__

He hangs up and tosses the phone back to the floor. 

__

"Practicing the fine art of hanging up on people, huh?" Dean says with a chuckle.

__

"I learned from the best, didn't I?" Cas gives his hair a playful tug that Dean could  _ definitely  _ get used to. "Now where were we?" 

__

Dean bites his lip. He wants nothing more than to let Castiel fuck him in this backseat on  _ this _ night, but his sense of responsibility is nagging at him. It isn't going to shut up.

__

"We…we should probably get going. Home, that is," he says, though the actual action of removing himself from Castiel's warm and strong and  _ very curious _ hands is proving difficult. The intoxicating touch of those fingers, as they slowly slide down his body to tease the edge of his jeans, damn near melt his resolve in a second. 

__

It's only Dean's familiar feeling of guilt at being selfish that keeps him from giving in, as much as he desperately wants to. 

__

"Cas…" he'd meant to say it in a reluctant yet convincing way, but forgot to stop thinking about how fucking turned on he was, so it comes out as nothing short of a moan.

__

"Dean." Cas kisses the back of his neck. 

__

"We should go home," Dean says weakly, even as he bows his head, as if in worship, to allow Cas more access. God, how he wants this. But he knows it wouldn't be right, to be out here at 3 AM screwing in a car like teenagers, when there are people who need them to be at 110% for a rescue mission.

__

"As you wish," Cas sighs, and trails his hands through Dean's hair one last time before releasing him. 

__

Dean slowly climbs out of the backseat, despite the half of him that desperately protests it. He plucks his shirt from the dewy grass where it had landed earlier and scrambles back into it. It's damp and smells slightly earthy. Dean leans against the door for a moment. He's a little light-headed, his brain still struggling to calibrate everything that's changed in the past hour or so.

__

Dean just about had his shit back together when Cas emerges from the car and hugs him from behind, making a low, pleased rumbling sound that vibrates through his spine like thunder and just like that, Dean's senses unravel all over again. His heartbeat picks up like it had never calmed, his whole body lights on fire like it had never cooled.

__

"Dammit Cas, you are not making this easy, man," Dean groans helplessly. 

__

Castiel holds him tighter, strong hands gripping damp fabric where they press against Dean's chest. His breath is hot in Dean's ear. 

__

"I love you, Dean."

__

Dean actually flinches, so unused to hearing those words, a little intimidated by their weight. So strange to hear them directed at him. It was slight, just a hint of a movement, but Cas doesn't miss it.

__

" _ I love you, _ " he whispers again, conviction deepening his voice like a barely contained storm. 

__

Dean kissed first, but he still hasn't said the L word. Their relationship has fundamentally, radically changed tonight, that much is certain. Once he says it though, that seals the deal. It's scary. It sounds odd when he says it. But if there was ever a time to  _ not _ leave Cas hanging, this, right now, this is it.

__

Dean closes his eyes, shaking a little. "I love you too, Cas," he breathes, barely audible, but he knows Cas can hear it. 

__

What must've been a few minutes or several or maybe an hour slip by, the world still and quiet around them, as Dean scarcely dares to breathe. He doesn't want to move. He wants to stay here in Castiel's arms, to stay this safe, this  _ whole, _ forever. 

__

But life has to go on. So Dean tears himself away from Cas, pushing down the deprivation he feels at the loss of the angel's touch. 

__

__

Neither speak as they finally pull out of the field, only the warm, rich rumbling of the engine and the crunching of hidden gravel fill in the silence.

__

Miles fall away behind them, lonely farmland stretching out in their wake, and the quiet begins to seep into Dean's lungs, filling them with murky water like a sewer drain, smothering him until he realizes he's been riding a high all this time, and now he's coming down. 

__

Somewhere along that desolate road, the spell breaks, and he freefalls from that high, gathering speed until he crashes into the pavement, a smoldering meteor.

__

Dean slams on the brakes. The fear inside him boils up again, forcing itself out in panicked breaths. He grips the wheel so tight it hurts.

__

__

"Cas what the fuck have we done," Dean whispers, staring straight ahead, his voice more small and frightened than he would ever admit. "What have we  _ done _ ?"

__

"Something we have both waited far too long to do," Cas replies after a moment. 

__

Dean tries to speak, but he can't slow his breathing enough to get words out. He lays his head down on his shaking hands and gives up.

__

"Dean, it's alright. We can forget this night ever happened, if that's what you need." Sadness seeps into Cas' voice, but he keeps it steady.

__

Dean finally looks at him, shaking his head. "No, Cas," he chokes out. "I need  _ you.  _ I need you so much.  _ Too much.  _ That's what scares me. I don't know these feelings, man, I don't know how to... Cas, losing you almost killed me.  _ I _ almost killed me."

__

__

Cas tilts his head slightly, worry creasing his face. "What do you mean?" He asks faintly, just like Sam had, as if he were realizing, a second too late, that he didn’t want to know.

__

__

"You heard me."

__

__

"Dean, you didn't… tell me you didn't." 

__

__

"I did." Dean looks away again, before those misty blue eyes can capture and keep him. "I tried, anyway," he mutters. "Didn't succeed obviously. I couldn't stop drinking…I didn’t sleep—fuck, I called your phone just to hear your voicemail! I was a mess. I was ready, Cas. That grief was just too much. I was ready to go." 

__

He really hadn't planned on saying  _ all _ of that, but here it is anyway.

__

"Dean…I'm so sorry," Cas says softly, painfully.

__

_ He  _ would _ apologize for  _ my _ weakness, _ a disdainful voice in Dean's head snarls.

__

Without another word, he suddenly steps on the gas, deliberately avoiding Castiel's gaze, because he knows it's trained on him. 

__

__

Dean is done talking. His mind is in turmoil, struggling endlessly, yet still failing to make sense of an entire spectrum of emotions he never learned how to feel.

__

__

The field and everything he and Cas did there—it was a dream. 

__

And now, Dean is awake.

__

__

The drive home is silent, and heavy laden with unspoken words. 

__

__

When they arrive, Dean simply sits still after turning off the ignition, staring forward, eyes frantically darting everywhere except at Castiel. 

__

The angel sits beside him, quiet, for a minute or two before slowly getting out and shutting the door carefully behind him. He places his hand on the hood for a moment, lingering tenderly, before walking away. The indirect contact isn’t lost on Dean, and he can swear he almost physically felt it. He watches Castiel leave, feeling his heart sink lower and lower with every agonizing second, wishing he could just erase whatever is fucking wrong with himself.

__

"Fuck!" Dean shouts as soon as he's alone, slamming his hands against the dashboard in frustration. 

__

He's really done it now. He's gone and fucked it up like he always does. Because having something this good is just too terrifying.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret to inform you that the jack Daniels and sunny D reference is derived from personal experience. Do not attempt.  
> Turns out actually posting things makes me wanna go finish them so WIPs are bout to start flying out the gate homies


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to formally apologize for how long this took. I would also like to officially blame my ADHD. I have v little experience writing prawns so plz pardon me if this is ass.

Dean drinks, because he can't think of anything else to do. He slinks back to his room, avoiding everyone, and cracks open a bottle of Jack to keep him company. He drinks until his brain is too blurry to torture him anymore. He drinks until his only concern is focusing on one spot on the ceiling hard enough to make the room stop spinning for a few seconds.

It's nearly 5 AM, but Dean crashes anyway. 

And dreams that dream again. 

The blinding light. 

Lucifer with his blood soaked blade.

That gut-wrenching thump of a body hitting the ground.

Castiel's cold, _cold_ skin—

The ashes of his wings—

The ashes of _him,_ dancing up into the night sky—

The sheer fucking helplessness—

Dean wakes with a choked gasp, heart pounding in his mouth, tears in his eyes. Miserably sober.

He'd had two whole weeks without the nightmare before now. It had been nice. 

So much for that. Apparently he's fucked that up too.

Dean mops the sweat from his face with one trembling hand and squints at the clock, trying to focus on something real so he can calm down. 8:22 AM. He drags himself out of bed with a heavy sigh. He knows too well that those hours are about all the sleep he can hope to get. He can already hear Sam moving around slowly, probably just waking up from his own few hours.

Dean slips out of his room barefoot and hoofs it, as quickly as he dares, to the staircase out.

He isn't good at sneaking around. 

Sam practically appears in front of him, teleporting from who knows where. "Dean, hey," he says with a grin. "You're up early. I uh, didn’t notice you guys get back last night. I dunno, maybe I'd already crashed. Anyway—" he drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper like they're 13 year olds at a fucking slumber party— "how'd it go? Spill."

Dean grimaces and tries to pass his brother without answering, but Sam isn’t having it.

"Dude, wait, what's up? Did something happen?" The grin has vanished, replaced by concern. 

"Sam, I—um, we…look, I don't wanna go into it right now, okay? I just fuckin' rolled outta bed, gimme a break." Dean avoids Sam's eyes, because nothing gets past the guy.

Sam grabs his arm, trying to guide him into a conversation that is not gonna be had today. "Dean, what's wrong?"

_ I had Cas for a minute, that's what, and it was real and he loves me just like you said and I had everything I wanted and then my stupid ass chased him away and I don't even know why— _

"Nothing!" Dean snaps. "I'm fine, I just, I need some air, okay?" He snatches his arm back and pushes past Sam. "Go, I dunno, make a smoothie or something." 

Dean leaves Sam calling after him in the hallway and makes his way to the stairs, praying that he won't run into Cas, or maybe that he will, because he is so scared and confused he has no goddamn idea which way is up anymore.

He hopes Cas didn't hear those prayers.

As soon as the heavy door slams shut, and the chilly morning mist touches his face, Dean lets out a breath he feels like he's been holding for hours. 

The sun isn't up yet, but it's struggling to get there, painting the woods in rich shades of blue. Dean hugs himself, wishing he'd put a jacket and shoes on before his hasty escape.

He knows he can't avoid Castiel forever. At some point, they're gonna have to talk, and Dean doesn’t know what to say. Even worse, he's afraid of what he _might_ say. Afraid he might panic, withdraw, and say something to push Cas away for good. Something that would fix him by just removing the source of these untamable emotions. 

Dean stares up at the gradually lightening sky, as if answers will fall down to help him if he looks hard enough.

Dean didn’t hear the door open. 

So when it closes with a bang, he jumps and spins around. 

Castiel is standing there, washed in blue, that familiar trench coat on over the same clothes from last night. No shoes.

Dean freezes, captivated, instantly finding Castiel's eyes and knowing that he's just tossed his chance at ever looking away.

"Cas," he says quietly.

"Dean." 

They stare at each other, just as they always have, the short space between them a canyon, layers and layers of stone, with a thousand echoes of unsaid words bouncing off of its walls. 

Cas reaches out. His hand halts halfway to Dean, hovering above the canyon. 

Dean swallows hard and, shaking a little, he finds himself stepping over the edge, closer to the angel on the other side. All he knows is that as terrified as he might be, he doesn't want this to end. It just started. They deserve a chance, don't they?

"Please," he whispers, desperate and small.

_ Please chase me. Please pull me back.  _

_ Please don't let me run from you. I'm not strong enough.  _

_ But I need you.  _

_ Please, Castiel. _

Dean is praying. But he only realizes it when he sees the change in Cas' features, from a painfully resigned sadness to recognition. To love.

_ Amen. _

Cas rests his hand against Dean's face, brushing a thumb gently over his trembling lips. Dean nuzzles into it, shivering slightly. Cas leans in and kisses him, and Dean closes his eyes and drowns in it. Cas is slow and sweet this time, and though Dean has to admit (if only to himself) that he craves the aggressive, handsy Cas from last night, this is what he needs now, and Cas knows it. He always knows.

After a few moments Cas breaks the kiss and simply gathers Dean into his arms, holding him close and running a gentle hand through his hair. Dean clings to him, breathes him in. 

"I'm sorry," Dean murmurs, "I don't know what that was last night, I just—just panicked, I guess."

Cas holds him tighter and says, "it's okay, Dean. It's okay."

The first rays of light are threading through the trees, and Dean sighs as the subtle warmth soaks into his back. He never would have imagined he could feel this secure standing barefoot and unarmed in the forest. But Castiel has always broken all the rules he'd thought were unshakable. 

Dean is through with doubting himself. Done with the endless labor of second-guessing and shame. Done keeping everything he feels locked away inside his head. He's nearly lost Cas too many times to stay afraid.

"Cas, I want you," Dean whispers as his fingernails dig into Castiel's back. "I want you so _fucking_ bad."

He hears Cas draw in a sharp breath. Feels Cas pull back to face him.

For barely a second, they lock eyes. 

Then Cas snatches the front of Dean's shirt and hauls him in, kissing him deeply with so much ferocity Dean is seeing stars. 

It's fucking amazing. 

Dean is vaguely aware that they're technically in public, but he doesn't care. He has waited way too long for this.

Cas slides his hands down to grab Dean's hips and grinds against him, just a little, just once, maybe not even intentionally, but once is enough to drag the breath out of him, making him want to outright beg for more. 

Just like that, last night's Cas is back with a vengeance, and apparently he's taking no prisoners. As soon as Dean pulls away for a split second, he goes for Dean's neck, kissing and biting with an indiscriminate hunger. 

Dean's heart was already racing, but it starts to sprint when it dawns on him that this is only going down one road: To the hay. The very idea of it makes him light-headed. He steps back and stares at Cas, panting unevenly. 

If the downright filthy look in those dilated eyes is any indication, Cas has the exact same things on his mind.

The decision is wordless.

Cas grabs Dean by the wrist and sweeps around, pulling him back towards the bunker door.

Dean lets him, without pause.

They half stumble into the bunker, trying mostly in vain to compose themselves. 

So it would figure that Sam would be hanging out right down there. The moment Dean and Cas enter he looks up with a huge grin.

"Hey guys, what's up?" He asks like he knows _exactly_ what's up. Well, Dean is gonna deny it anyway, because despite everything he still feels just a bit self conscious, and he still can’t shake it quite yet. _And._ He hates letting Sam be right.

"Nothing much," Dean says unconvincingly. Cas glances at him, one eyebrow raised just the slightest bit, and is that a bit of a smirk on his face—?

Sam grins wider. "Sure."

"Whaddaya mean _sure?"_

"What I mean is," Sam says with a snarky tone, "people don't generally get boners for _nothing much."_

_ This little fucker! _

Dean turns red and spins around to face the door. "Sam, I will fuckin' murder you!" He shouts at the ceiling.

Sam just laughs. "Whatever, Dean. Anyway, I am going to go out for a really long, _really_ slow run. More of a walk, really. A stroll. You guys enjoy your totally platonic morning of totally not screwing."

_"Wow,_ Sam!" Dean yells, but his brother is unfazed. He hears Sam coming up the stairs so he can leave.

"All jokes aside though," Sam says, "boy am I proud of you two. Almost wanna get a damn cake about it." 

Okay, Dean _had_ to crack a smile at that. Beaming at them once more, Sam swings the door open and steps out, leaving them in a silence that is tense in all the best ways. 

For an insanely charged couple of seconds, they just stare at one another. 

Cas isn’t wasting any more time, though. He backs Dean into the nearest wall, kissing him like it's the last time he ever will.

It's a miracle that they make it down the staircase with no casualties, since neither of them seemed capable of separating for long enough to make a sane descent. 

Dean's senses are taken over entirely by Castiel. His hands, his lips, his body. The rest of the world is an afterthought, just obstacles to stumble over on the way to his bedroom. 

Nothing else matters. 

Only this, and how it has somehow, some way, by some wild stroke of luck, become reality.

At some point Dean had lost his shirt, and for a fleeting moment he realizes that it's now lying on the floor in the hallway, but he's way too caught up in this to care. His back is against his bedroom door now, the handle inches from his hand, and his heart jumps into his mouth. 

Opening this door will change everything, and Dean is more than a little daunted by the concept. 

Cas pauses, his hands braced on either side of Dean's head, trembling slightly with anticipation and need. He lets out a few heavy breaths as they lock eyes. Then he moves one hand to cradle Dean's face, his touch tender and loving, contrasting wildly with the lust-driven pace of only a few seconds ago.

"Dean, do you want this?" He softly asks.

A short moment that feels long enough to freeze time goes by. 

Dean swallows hard and tries to slow his breathing. 

He nods.

"Say it." Castiel's tone stays low and gentle, but with the faintest hint of insistence, and Dean craves it.

"Cas, I _need_ this." 

"Good." Cas slides one hand down to Dean's bare chest, reaches around him to get the door open with the other, and pushes him inside, all in one swift motion.

As soon as the door clicks shut, they both pause, and Dean realizes he's not the only one who feels like he's just stepped into another world. 

It's as if every word unsaid over the years has woken up, and now the room is filled with them, and they're heavy in the air, beautiful, terrifying, intense and serene all at once. Every long look that will be remembered a lot differently now. Every risk one of them had taken that made the other furious, now making sense.

Castiel is still holding Dean, by his shoulders now, and his grip tightens, and Dean can feel his hands shake, only a second of movement, easily missed. But Dean never misses those things, not when it's Cas. He's spent nearly a decade learning them, every subtle tell, every expression that lasted a blink, every crinkling of the eyes that would've been a smile on anyone else.

_ How'd I miss that Cas was in love with me all this time?  _ Dean shouts silently at himself _. How did I not see this? _

There is no way to ever make up for all those words never spoken. They hover like a bird of prey, circling around the space between Dean and Cas, with nowhere to go. Suddenly overwhelmed by it, Dean stumbles back a step or two, and lands heavily on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving Castiel's. 

Cas follows him, stopping only inches away. Dean gazes up at him, tall, graceful, striking. And immediately the whirling thoughts in his mind screech to a halt, replaced by a visceral image of getting down on his knees and showing Castiel what Heaven  _ really _ is.

That first bit is already done, seeing as how he's already at dick level. 

Dean draws a breath and forgets to let it out. He feels heat spiking in him, his hands tingling and his heart rate soaring. Nobody has moved for what seems like minutes, but in reality are probably just seconds. 

Then Cas reaches out and moves his hand behind Dean's neck, thumb tracing along his jawline. That breath Dean had been holding escapes him as something closer to a soft sigh of pleasure. Cas licks his lips, and Dean's eyes fix on them.

"Dean." Castiel's voice is quiet and rough. Dean loves it. He will always love that voice. All he can do is blink in response, so he's a little unprepared to find his own hands slipping fingers through the black belt loops in front of him. His own hands slowly unbuttoning, slowly unzipping, as Castiel's fingers curl against his neck and he feels the slight graze of fingernails. Dean glances up, meets those blue eyes, sees the hint of aroused curiosity in them, and it dawns on him that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, has never had anyone suck him off. As much as that's a damn shame, though, Dean is also incredibly pleased to be the first one to do it.

Castiel's boxers are white, cotton, way too ordinary for someone as intense and sexy as he is. Dean makes a mental note to fix that before he tugs them down—not even all the way because he's too impatient for that—just enough to get at that gorgeous cock. Just enough to get his mouth on it and not waste any time. Slowly Dean licks his way up the length of Cas' cock, wraps his lips around the flushed head, his hands planted firmly on Cas' hips. Cas bites down on a gasp, bucking forward involuntarily, and Dean nearly chokes, but no, he's better than letting that dampen his efforts. He pulls back a little, then goes down again, relaxing his throat and taking every inch of Cas' cock into his mouth. He feels hands slide into his hair, tangling at the nape of his neck, and _ God  _ it's amazing. Unlike most dicks Dean has had, Cas tastes alright; probably because he doesn't actually use it for anything. Well, Dean's here to change that tonight.

A couple of times, Dean envisions unwelcome memories of the superficial hookups he'd been all but addicted to when Cas was gone. The nights he'd shamelessly given some guy head in a bathroom stall, or an unfamiliar house, or the back of a goddamn 21st century car. Not his proudest moments. But however small, however regrettable, the role they had played in making sure he could be alive today—that's gotta mean  _ something. _

So Dean listens to Castiel gasp and moan and utter his name, and he lets it drown out the voices of all those other men in his head, men who didn't even know his name. He listens until this is all that he can hear, as he worships Castiel with his mouth and his hands, takes him apart piece by piece. Once or twice he glances up, and drinks in the sight of Castiel—his stoic, regal, unshakeable angel soldier—completely vulnerable and consumed with pleasure. Dean's so lost in it, the physical sensation alone feels like pure victory. As much as it's submission, it's victory against his own inhibitions, the ones it's about time he leaves behind. It's submission that he has chosen, that he will now only give to one person, that he's finally no longer ashamed to give. And that feels more secure than any hookup Dean has ever had. Even the ones that had gone just a bit farther, when one or both of them weren't hastily leaving in the morning, and they actually talked a little. Those slightly-more-than hookups had felt like something special once, like something more than just giving himself to a stranger for free. How fucking lonely he'd been, how unbearably lost without his angel. 

Castiel pulls back for a moment with a shaky breath, still hard as all hell but clearly intent on staying that way a little longer. Dean gazes up at him, licking the taste of Cas from his mouth with a slow swipe of his tongue. Cas bites his lip and the fire in his eyes, dark with lust, rages like a solar flare.

"Dean," he growls, somehow gravelly and velvet all at once. 

Dean just nods, licks his lips again, slowly lets his hands fall from Castiel's hips. There's a fleeting moment of a standstill.

Then Cas shoves Dean down onto the mattress with a smirk that could easily be described as evil. Not the evil Dean is used to, though—this is the  _ good  _ kind. Horny Cas is rapidly becoming one of Dean's favorite facets of Cas' personality, the side of him that Dean has pined for  _ so long _ to explore.

Dean scoots further up a bit, and Cas wastes no time kneeling on the bed to straddle him. For probably the seventieth time this morning, Dean has to remind himself that this is real, it's actually  _ real  _ and he just sucked this man's dick _. _ Just to ground himself a little more, Dean gets bold and slides his hands up under Castiel's shirt, dragging them across soft, hot skin until he can feel Castiel's heart racing beneath his fingers. 

Cas practically tears his shirt off, that fire somehow growing even brighter. Dean watches, enthralled, as Cas stops touching him long enough to bring a hand up to his mouth, and slowly lick it from palm to fingertips, all while never breaking eye contact. 

_ God fucking help me. _

Dean's been around the block enough to know where that hand was going, but when Cas finally touches his cock it feels like the first time. All the patience he thought he'd built up in his many sexcapades— he quickly learns that's forfeit too. He's just waited too long for this. Cas' touch is careful but driven, jerking him off with enough expertise that Dean wonders if he's had a few sexcapades himself.

"Cas…" Dean begins with a desperate thrust of his hips, but Cas uses his free hand to gently tap a finger over his mouth.

"Patience," Cas purrs into Dean's ear. His breath is hot and damp but Dean still shivers. Cas keeps on stroking with an amount of care that Dean does not want right now. He draws it out until all Dean can feel is this  _ need. _

"Oh my God Cas, just fuck me," Dean whines after only a few more moments, and Cas pauses, leans in close to look him in the eye.

"What was that?" Cas whispers devilishly.

Dean is past letting shame get in his way. He'll be a desperate little bitch any day if it's for Castiel.

"Fuck me, Cas," he repeats without hesitation. Cas sits up for a second, and all it takes is a glance to the left from Dean, for Cas to dive into the drawer of the nightstand where Dean keeps all the fun stuff.

As Cas rifles through it, Dean admits to himself that this is the first time someone he trusts has been in that drawer. Someone who isn't so drunk that he doesn't care if they know where he lives. Someone that he  _ wants _ for more than just a night of numbing the pain. Someone he  _ loves. _

If he's being honest, Dean never thought he'd see the day. He's never expected or dared to hope for anything as good as this.

But here it is. Here's Castiel with his fingers slick and wet, holding Dean in place with one hand, penetrating him with the other. 

It takes everything in Dean's power to allow himself to surrender so entirely, to  _ anyone,  _ let alone someone he's actually going to  _ see _ tomorrow morning. 

But this is Cas. Cas is different. Cas strokes his hair and tugs on it just enough and makes sure Dean is comfortable before he slips another finger in. It's almost surreal. Dean has lost track of whatever sounds have been coming out of his mouth because he's past controlling them. Maybe he shouldn't try to, anyway. Another new concept.

"You are so beautiful, Dean," Castiel praises as he slowly moves his fingers. "So, so beautiful. How long I've wanted to see you like this."

Dean is impatient, lifting his hips in a wordless plea, only halfway registering the words Cas is saying. He's already so close, precum dripping onto his stomach, his ears starting to ring, and for once he's not ashamed of it, not trying to hide or hold anything back. Part of him still wants to. But that part is smaller now, and it keeps on shrinking as Cas continues to open him up. Dean can see the  _ want  _ in Castiel's eyes, hear it in the way he's breathing, yet still he stays gentle, determined not to hurt Dean or do anything Dean hasn't consented to. It's a good way to go about things like this. It really is. But Dean knows what he wants.

"Cas,  _ please, _ " Dean pants after only a few more moments. Turns out he's not above begging for it, under the right circumstances. Another thing he's refusing, at least for tonight, to be ashamed of.

Cas leans down to claim Dean's mouth with his as he adds a third finger, then he whispers in Dean's ear. 

"You want me to fuck you, Dean?"

"Yes," Dean whines without a second thought, "yes, please,  _ please,  _ I need you."

Cas makes him wait nearly another minute before he finally gets to it, lifting Dean's hips with both hands to slowly,  _ slowly  _ push himself in, and waiting for him to bottom out is the best possible torture. Dean lets his head fall back against the bed, lets his eyes roll back and close as he acclimates. He can hear Castiel above him, panting, the sound so amplified that he loses himself in it. It blends into the surreal sensation of Cas finally inside of him, and it takes him over, so intense that he barely manages to nod when Cas asks if it's okay to move.

Cas starts to slowly fuck him, and everything that exists outside of this room loses all meaning, all importance. All that matters is this. The look of pure fulfillment on Castiel's face, the gentle touches he gives because he knows Dean needs more than just sexual gratification. Dean needs to know he's worth something, and somehow Cas has always known how to make sure he doesn't forget for too long.

Dean comes a lot sooner than he'd like to, but he reminds himself, as he lets Cas take him apart, that expecting much more would just be unrealistic after how long he's starved for this.

Dean allows himself, for the first time, to  _ entirely _ lose track of the world, of every responsibility, every good thing he's tried to do, every bad thing that's his fault, all the confusing and frightening things in between. For tonight, he lets them all go. Drowned out by the sound of his angel's soft moans, fucking him through his aftershocks, following him over the edge soon after. 

Dean's had sex with plenty of men, but he's never trusted anyone enough to let them finish inside of him. Until now, until Cas. With Cas, it almost feels good enough to be another orgasm, or at the very least, makes him gasp enough expletives that it might as well be.

Dean is so enthralled, so lost in processing things he never thought he'd feel, he barely notices when Cas pulls out and collapses beside him, spent and exhausted. He barely cares that they could both use a good shower, doesn't even acknowledge that it's cold as fuck and they're on top of the blankets. He's alive in Heaven. Still though, his eyes are closed but he feels Cas reach over him, find the edge of the blanket, and pull it up to cover him. 

A moment later Cas flops back down, one arm still draped across Dean's chest. Dean thinks he might've just figured out how to make an angel tired.

"I love you," Dean whispers, laying his hand over Castiel's. The words still feel a little strange in his mouth, but he's getting the hang of it.

"I love  _ you," _ Cas murmurs, and he lifts his head just slightly to kiss Dean's shoulder. 

Dean keeps his eyes shut, stares into the soft black static until it starts to slow down.

Then he opens them, and all of this is still real. And he thinks, _damn, am I a lucky man._ Usually the answer to that is _no, never._ Just, not this time. Cas has finally pulled Dean out of his own personal Hell, and Dean is never, ever going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-15x20 spite-writing got my pp harder than a diamond.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me.. I finished the first fic I ever wrote. Look ma no hands

  
  


In the past, when Dean had daydreamed about a relationship with Castiel, he had imagined a lot of things. But he'd never pictured Cas as a PDA guy. How wrong he had been.

As it turns out, Cas is shameless. The first day that Dean got a crash course in just how few fucks Cas has to give, it was late on a sunny afternoon in Utah. They were 3 and a half days into a frustrating case, and Dean's nerves were worn thin. He was high strung, twitchy, and (admittedly) probably not a lot of fun to be around. That is, until Cas sidled up next to him, carefully turned him around from the trunk where he'd been anxiously rummaging, and just… _ kissed _ him. It was gentle and soothing, and for the first time in over 12 hours, Dean was given a moment to pause, to breathe. 

But it was also right smack in the middle of a rural truck stop.

You'd think it was choreographed with how many heads turned at once to gawk at them. 

Immediately Dean's heart had begun to pound, and he'd been struck by a sudden, panicked instinct to make some sort of excuse, to explain himself in a rush because surely he can come up with _ something,  _ because they're all looking, they're all  _ judging _ him,  _ scorning  _ him—

Dean had just frozen. 

But Cas, after realizing what Dean was looking at, had turned all the way around to face the random onlookers. 

"Why don't you all draw a picture, it will last longer," he growled. Dean incredulously let his breath out, huffing a little laugh because he knew Cas learned that phrase from him and Sam.

Most of the nosy bastards had looked away sheepishly, and even the stubborn stragglers didn't hold up for long, not with the way that Cas was glaring at them. Dean wouldn't have been surprised if his eyes had started literally burning holes in people. 

Back in the car again with Cas by his side, windows closed and the truck stop shrinking in the rearview, Dean felt tears pooling in his eyes, and he didn't really know why. He just knew it was something to do with that conviction he saw on Cas' face. The unflinching way he'd stepped up to defend them. His fearlessness. Because it had been a long, long day, and Dean had needed that kiss, and goddammit, he wished those disapproving looks didn't affect him, and yet still they did. 

But Cas? Cas was unapologetic. Brave. Cas didn't give a single fuck. Dean desperately wished and hoped and dreamed to have that level of confidence. 

As if he could hear those thoughts, Cas had reached across the seats and placed a reassuring hand on Dean's knee. He didn't say anything, he just kept his hand there. Somehow, the simple but tender gesture diluted Dean's self hatred a little.

Sometimes when Dean went on a hunt with just Cas, he couldn't help but notice the pride in the angel's voice whenever he ordered a single bed hotel room.

Cas will hold Dean's hand on a simple food run. He'll stroke Dean's hair when he's stressed out and clearly getting overwhelmed. He doesn't care where or when.

Whenever they're on a plainclothes stakeout, Cas will always drop the partner act in favor of the  _ partner  _ reality. He doesn't seem to care at all about hetero social norms or anybody's judgement. He wraps his arm around Dean's shoulders whenever he feels like it. 

There were even a couple of times when Dean got captured, and when his captors put him on the phone with Cas, he'd make sure Dean didn't forget how loved he is. 

Castiel doesn't fear all the ways their love could be used against them. To him, it's more important to be certain that if Dean dies, he dies with one last comforting thought to cling onto.

It takes Dean a while to get used to all of this affection. Sometimes Cas will be busy with something, and Dean will just watch him with a dopey grin, still incredulous at the fact that he got lucky enough to have this. Sometimes in the starkly contrasting silence after a battle they almost didn't win, as Dean lets his weapon slip from his hand and stumbles into Castiel's arms, he'll cling too tightly, still terrified that he might be cursed enough to lose this.

Their lives haven't gotten any easier, and Dean's not holding his breath. But at the end of every day, no matter how harrowing, Dean will still find Castiel next to him, even if it's just in the form of a good night text. The only regret Dean has is that he didn't let himself do this sooner. 

There are still nightmares occasionally, usually when Dean is stressed to Hell, that bring him back to that horrible night when he watched his angel die. He still wakes up in a panic, or even in tears, disoriented when he realizes he's not soaked with rain. Not kneeling in the mud beside himself with grief. Not at the edge of a lake with his heart in pieces. 

Dean wakes up from his fitful sleep, hands tangled in the hotel comforter, but he's not alone anymore. Cas is right by his side, still doing research on his dimmed phone. 

Cas peels his attention from whatever he's reading, looks down at Dean's tear-streaked face, and immediately puts his phone down. He slowly reaches out to push a few damp strands of hair from Dean's forehead, whispering, "are you okay, love? did you have a nightmare?" And Dean nods weakly.

"Yeah," he says with a sigh, his voice a little shakier than he'd like, "my favorite one." 

Cas' expression changes, somehow even more tender now. He abandons his research on the nightstand and settles in next to Dean, pulling the blanket over them and enclosing Dean into his strong embrace. 

"Okay," Cas softly murmurs, "everything's okay, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, Dean. I won't leave you again."

Every damn day, Dean prays that promise will always stay true.

These days, Cas drives Dean's beloved car sometimes. And he looks good in it. Dean had felt like a lovestruck teenager the first time he saw Cas lean one gorgeously tanned arm out the window, and steer with the other. He had blushed enough to match the sunrise when Cas had turned to look at him, aviator shades reflecting the sky, that unfairly charming smile lighting up his face. 

_ That's for me,  _ Dean always thinks,  _ that amazing smile is for me.  _ Often, he has to remind himself a few times, retraining a mind too used to heartbreak and scarcity.

_ That is for me. Castiel smiles for  _ me. 

Sometimes, they take Cas' pickup, loaded with beer and snacks and blankets, and they drive all the way to the coast. They visit beaches and state parks, drive through towns surrounded by mountains, and put regional fast food joints to the test. They stroll through markets and thrift stores holding hands, because nobody really minds it on the West side. Instead of getting a hotel, they park somewhere far off and quiet, and they curl up in the flatbed to watch the stars until Dean dozes off. 

Perhaps they'll never be able to make up for all the times they didn't do this, but Dean is damned if he's not gonna give it all he's got. Perhaps he'll never quite be able to put into words how much more worthwhile life is now, but Dean is trying. He's trying with actions, because he's just better at that. Because he can trust Cas to understand, and that's a rare thing. Rare, but not unattainable. No matter how assuredly Dean used to believe it was.

Perhaps he's been wrong about a few things, but for once, Dean is okay with that. 

Perhaps he's not cursed, not doomed to ruin every good thing that comes his way. Castiel has been the exception to all the other rules, so why not that one?

"Hey Cas?" Dean asks one chilly autumn night as they're snuggled into the sofa, safe and warm in a heap of blankets. 

"Hm?" Cas sounds about as sleepy as a creature who doesn't sleep can get.

Dean keeps his eyes on the TV screen, watching the soothingly slow credit roll of some cheesy movie he fell asleep to.

"Why'd you keep all the notes I've left you?" He thinks he knows why. It's just hard to believe it if you haven't heard it from the horse's mouth. 

Cas doesn't answer for a moment. Then he ruffles Dean's hair and says, "because  _ you _ wrote them. And I love you, you dumbass."

Dean smiles and nestles closer. He knew that was the answer, but it feels so good to hear it. Cas is clearly amused, but the comforting sincerity in his voice wasn't lost. 

"Y'know that's kinda creepy, right?" Dean teases.

"Oh?" Cas replies, and Dean can almost hear his eyebrows lifting. "Says he who was snooping around in my room?"

"God dammit."

"Yeah. Yeah, Dean, I went there. Who's the creep now?"

Dean is laughing. He does that a lot more these days. "Okay," he says, "you got me there. You got me."

"I truly did," Cas agrees with mock solemnity. 

"Fine. You did. But you know why I was in there?"

"Do tell."

Dean twists around to look at Cas, to watch those blue eyes sparkle with mirth, and he says, "because I love you. Dumbass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now I can finally go all out on other fics without feeling like a complete fucking ballsack

**Author's Note:**

> [my dumb ass is on tumblr.](http://kweenratmother.tumblr.com/)


End file.
